playing out. Or maybe I was just really horny from him teasing me the whole day. The strapless, gray dress he’d chosen for me suddenly felt uncomfortable on my skin. I wanted to be naked, disposed of the clothes that kept me from him.
I began to tell him how good the shot was when he stood and stepped around the table grabbing my face. He kissed me there in front of everyone eating and mingling at the bar. His impatient consumption of me took me off guard, but as his bittersweet tongue swept across mine, I no longer cared who watched. And just as suddenly as he’d kissed me, he stopped and said, “Beso.” Then he quickly kissed my lips once more before retreating to his side of the table.
I went from overwhelmed with sensation to senseless in seconds.
When he sat down and straightened his dinner jacket, he said, “ Beso. Kiss. I forgot that part.”
I laughed. How could you forget something like that?
Without missing a beat, he told me, “I can also ask where the bathroom is, how to get a taxi, common pleasantries, and I know how to ask for two more of anything. I think there are a few others, but that’s mostly it.”
I was still a little dizzy from the kiss and the shot, but it was hard to remember when I’d been on a date where I had zero expectations of what would happen. I loved how wild he was at times. He always kept me on my toes.
We ate BLTs, which he’d prearranged to be available for us. There we were at a gourmet restaurant eating bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches—one of the best I’d ever had, mind you—and we laughed. We drank beers and shared stories about the funny people we’d met traveling for work.
Then we drank a little more.
Lame. Bebe. Chupa. Beso.
I loved taking shots with him. He was such a good kisser.
After three, I got up and went to him instead. The bartender clapped and gave a little, “woo,” catching me. By then the dinner crowd had cleared out, but we stayed as bar-goers began filling the space. Less and less, people were eating and sitting, and more and more were they dancing to the two-piece band.
“Let’s dance, mi abeja. ”
That was a new one and tipped my head in question.
“Let’s dance, my honeybee.”
“Okay,” I said, but I was already floating.
We swayed. The alcohol had made our bodies loose. I clung to him and during slower songs I laid my head on his chest and listened to him hum along to music he couldn’t possibly know. His deep rumbling, in time to the tiny band, sounded so damn good.
“We need a new song,” he said looking down at me.
“No, we don’t,” I disagreed.
“I shouldn’t have danced with her to that. It was a low blow. I ruined our song.”
“No. Sheryl Crow ruined it way before you did,” I joked. “I only liked it because I danced to it with you.”
He pulled away and stopped, shocked. “Are you kidding me?” He smirked.
“It was kinda sad. I mean, I don’t think that song has a happy ending. It just sounds sexy with all the ohhhs and ahhhs. It isn’t a good love song,” I explained.
He wrapped his long arms around me and we started to move again.
He kissed the side of my forehead. “Then we needed a new one anyway, didn’t we?” he asked.
“I don’t want one song, Lou.” My feet shuffled parallel to his shoes. My left leg was between his legs. Our bodies coupled naturally, it felt like home. Like my other half was connected. Like Heaven.
“How many do you want? Do I need a pen and paper?” he jested.
“I don’t want just one song to remind me of you.” I tipped my head up, but in my heels I was already closer to his mouth. “I want every song to be our song. I want every song we dance to be ours to keep. I want thousands of songs with you, Casey.” Either tequila had magical powers or I was finally learning to talk with my heart. Both stood a good chance of being true.
“I can’t deny that I like your logic.”
“And if every song is our song, and we don’t dance with anyone
I began to tell him how good the shot was when he stood and stepped around the table grabbing my face. He kissed me there in front of everyone eating and mingling at the bar. His impatient consumption of me took me off guard, but as his bittersweet tongue swept across mine, I no longer cared who watched. And just as suddenly as he’d kissed me, he stopped and said, “Beso.” Then he quickly kissed my lips once more before retreating to his side of the table.
I went from overwhelmed with sensation to senseless in seconds.
When he sat down and straightened his dinner jacket, he said, “ Beso. Kiss. I forgot that part.”
I laughed. How could you forget something like that?
Without missing a beat, he told me, “I can also ask where the bathroom is, how to get a taxi, common pleasantries, and I know how to ask for two more of anything. I think there are a few others, but that’s mostly it.”
I was still a little dizzy from the kiss and the shot, but it was hard to remember when I’d been on a date where I had zero expectations of what would happen. I loved how wild he was at times. He always kept me on my toes.
We ate BLTs, which he’d prearranged to be available for us. There we were at a gourmet restaurant eating bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches—one of the best I’d ever had, mind you—and we laughed. We drank beers and shared stories about the funny people we’d met traveling for work.
Then we drank a little more.
Lame. Bebe. Chupa. Beso.
I loved taking shots with him. He was such a good kisser.
After three, I got up and went to him instead. The bartender clapped and gave a little, “woo,” catching me. By then the dinner crowd had cleared out, but we stayed as bar-goers began filling the space. Less and less, people were eating and sitting, and more and more were they dancing to the two-piece band.
“Let’s dance, mi abeja. ”
That was a new one and tipped my head in question.
“Let’s dance, my honeybee.”
“Okay,” I said, but I was already floating.
We swayed. The alcohol had made our bodies loose. I clung to him and during slower songs I laid my head on his chest and listened to him hum along to music he couldn’t possibly know. His deep rumbling, in time to the tiny band, sounded so damn good.
“We need a new song,” he said looking down at me.
“No, we don’t,” I disagreed.
“I shouldn’t have danced with her to that. It was a low blow. I ruined our song.”
“No. Sheryl Crow ruined it way before you did,” I joked. “I only liked it because I danced to it with you.”
He pulled away and stopped, shocked. “Are you kidding me?” He smirked.
“It was kinda sad. I mean, I don’t think that song has a happy ending. It just sounds sexy with all the ohhhs and ahhhs. It isn’t a good love song,” I explained.
He wrapped his long arms around me and we started to move again.
He kissed the side of my forehead. “Then we needed a new one anyway, didn’t we?” he asked.
“I don’t want one song, Lou.” My feet shuffled parallel to his shoes. My left leg was between his legs. Our bodies coupled naturally, it felt like home. Like my other half was connected. Like Heaven.
“How many do you want? Do I need a pen and paper?” he jested.
“I don’t want just one song to remind me of you.” I tipped my head up, but in my heels I was already closer to his mouth. “I want every song to be our song. I want every song we dance to be ours to keep. I want thousands of songs with you, Casey.” Either tequila had magical powers or I was finally learning to talk with my heart. Both stood a good chance of being true.
“I can’t deny that I like your logic.”
“And if every song is our song, and we don’t dance with anyone
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