imagined attention.
Her lashes lifted suddenly, and from under them, she gave him a long look. His hands squeezed slowly tighter.
“So, did your father raise you on his own or did he remarry?” she asked randomly. Probably grabbing at topics to make the sexual tension halfway bearable.
“Mmm.” This was what he got for taking a woman out to dinner. Conversation, for God’s sake. He did much, much better just going straight to sex, before, during, and after which no woman ever looked at him with the slightest hint of pity. “He didn’t remarry. This is really good.” He pointed to the healthiest first course on the menu, trying to make up for all that sugar he was pouring into her body. “The chef sautés the chèvre very quickly over high heat, and then lays it over a bed of mâche, with balsamic caramelized figs—”
He stopped, because her eyes had flicked from his finger on the menu back to his face, and they were narrowed, a little annoyed.
What had he said? Damn it, the whole sex-and-that’s-it policy had been working so well for him. What had inspired him to change it?
Her hands shifted in his as if she might be wanting to free them, and he couldn’t help it that his fingers tightened a little. It was instinct. He looked down at her hands caught in his as the twitch stilled and she changed her mind, then up to the freckles over her cheekbones, her wide mouth, her blue gaze back on their hands, the blush that had never entirely faded from her cheeks that evening. That warmth washed through him, beating his helpless body. Oh, that. That had inspired him to change his policy.
“You want me to be quiet so you can concentrate on the menu?” he hazarded.
She shook her head, gazing at their hands. “No. No, whatever you said sounds good.”
It wasn’t until the first course arrived that he realized one of the worst aspects of this dinner idea, that he had to let go of her hands, too. He angled his legs under the small table so that they kept brushing against hers instead. And she looked up at him with those skydiving eyes of hers and that sunset blush and let him do it. And she ate all of her salad and only a third of the steak, but then she kept soaking up that Roquefort sauce with fries and nibbling one more from time to time while he ate his steak, until her whole rich concoction of pure cream and Roquefort was gone, so he felt he had accomplished something. Plus, he had the brilliant idea to talk about the best places to visit in Paris instead of family history, so his own enjoyment of the conversation improved radically. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about what she had seen, asked him about what he liked. He was a little embarrassed to realize she had visited more of the cultural monuments of his city than he had.
He draped his jacket around her shoulders as they left the restaurant, entirely smug about his forethought in wearing one and her lack of forethought in not. They didn’t say a word as they walked through the streets. He knew he should keep up conversation, not let her start having second thoughts, but his heart was beating so hard, he didn’t dare open his mouth. He knew his words would come out choppy; she would hear his struggle to breathe.
What was the matter with him? How could he be nervous about sex ?
At the door to her building, she turned and looked up at him, her hands burying in the pockets of his jacket, her eyes very wide.
He leaned into her, bracing his arms on either side of her head.
“Tell me your name.” He tried to keep his voice coaxing, but he was pretty sure he didn’t succeed. Damn it, he was not going to be her wild one-time nameless fuck, her little visit to a porn shop. His whole being rose up in rebellion against that role he had embraced for so long.
Bordel de cul, she wasn’t going to tell him. She looked away, her face growing thoughtful and distant. Braced over her, his body surged with ways he could wring it out of her, and she shot a
Her lashes lifted suddenly, and from under them, she gave him a long look. His hands squeezed slowly tighter.
“So, did your father raise you on his own or did he remarry?” she asked randomly. Probably grabbing at topics to make the sexual tension halfway bearable.
“Mmm.” This was what he got for taking a woman out to dinner. Conversation, for God’s sake. He did much, much better just going straight to sex, before, during, and after which no woman ever looked at him with the slightest hint of pity. “He didn’t remarry. This is really good.” He pointed to the healthiest first course on the menu, trying to make up for all that sugar he was pouring into her body. “The chef sautés the chèvre very quickly over high heat, and then lays it over a bed of mâche, with balsamic caramelized figs—”
He stopped, because her eyes had flicked from his finger on the menu back to his face, and they were narrowed, a little annoyed.
What had he said? Damn it, the whole sex-and-that’s-it policy had been working so well for him. What had inspired him to change it?
Her hands shifted in his as if she might be wanting to free them, and he couldn’t help it that his fingers tightened a little. It was instinct. He looked down at her hands caught in his as the twitch stilled and she changed her mind, then up to the freckles over her cheekbones, her wide mouth, her blue gaze back on their hands, the blush that had never entirely faded from her cheeks that evening. That warmth washed through him, beating his helpless body. Oh, that. That had inspired him to change his policy.
“You want me to be quiet so you can concentrate on the menu?” he hazarded.
She shook her head, gazing at their hands. “No. No, whatever you said sounds good.”
It wasn’t until the first course arrived that he realized one of the worst aspects of this dinner idea, that he had to let go of her hands, too. He angled his legs under the small table so that they kept brushing against hers instead. And she looked up at him with those skydiving eyes of hers and that sunset blush and let him do it. And she ate all of her salad and only a third of the steak, but then she kept soaking up that Roquefort sauce with fries and nibbling one more from time to time while he ate his steak, until her whole rich concoction of pure cream and Roquefort was gone, so he felt he had accomplished something. Plus, he had the brilliant idea to talk about the best places to visit in Paris instead of family history, so his own enjoyment of the conversation improved radically. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about what she had seen, asked him about what he liked. He was a little embarrassed to realize she had visited more of the cultural monuments of his city than he had.
He draped his jacket around her shoulders as they left the restaurant, entirely smug about his forethought in wearing one and her lack of forethought in not. They didn’t say a word as they walked through the streets. He knew he should keep up conversation, not let her start having second thoughts, but his heart was beating so hard, he didn’t dare open his mouth. He knew his words would come out choppy; she would hear his struggle to breathe.
What was the matter with him? How could he be nervous about sex ?
At the door to her building, she turned and looked up at him, her hands burying in the pockets of his jacket, her eyes very wide.
He leaned into her, bracing his arms on either side of her head.
“Tell me your name.” He tried to keep his voice coaxing, but he was pretty sure he didn’t succeed. Damn it, he was not going to be her wild one-time nameless fuck, her little visit to a porn shop. His whole being rose up in rebellion against that role he had embraced for so long.
Bordel de cul, she wasn’t going to tell him. She looked away, her face growing thoughtful and distant. Braced over her, his body surged with ways he could wring it out of her, and she shot a
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