see how affected she was by the kiss they shared. She wants more, and so does he. But he’s not ready to give it to her. Not yet.
“Well, then,” he says, “it looks like I’m taking you out to dinner.”
The Jeep smells like leather. The light from the dashboard makes Eric’s knuckles look white as he manipulates the stick shift. Emma stares straight ahead, wondering where he’s taking her. The radio plays, just loud enough to prevent awkward silence in the car. He glances at her as he drives and she looks away. Longing engulfs her. Now that she has touched him, she wants more, she needs more. But she doesn’t know how to get it. She has to get inside his head.
She envisions what would’ve happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. Perhaps he would have made love to her . . . on the living room floor . . . on the couch. She would have finally been the one to meet his need. His restraint surprised her, but in a way, it was a blessing. Anything more than a kiss would’ve been too much. It would have been too fast. Her head tells her it’s for the best, but her body disagrees. She’s attracted to him, but she doesn’t want to be just a conquest. She wants him, over and over again. To be the sole object of his desire. The only one. It’s an unrealistic expectation, but she yearns for it nonetheless.
The restaurant is dark inside. It’s the kind of place illicit couples come to hide, to avoid being caught. The aromas of fresh bread and spices fill the air. Eric speaks to the olive-skinned hostess, and they follow her to the back of the restaurant. She seats them at a secluded, candlelit table near a bay window. There are no chairs, just a cushioned bench seat on the windowsill. Emma and Eric have no choice but to sit right next to each other.
Emma looks at the menu, and Eric studies the wine list. Their arms brush against each other, and Emma feels the powerful pull to him. The warmth of his body fans the spark inside her and she lets herself rest against his heat.
“Do you want to get a bottle? Oh, that’s right, you don’t drink.”
A glass of wine sounds like a perfect antidote to Emma’s nerves and unsatisfied lust. “I guess a glass or two won’t hurt. I like red.”
Eric smiles. “All right.”
The waiter arrives and Eric orders the wine, chatting about Argentina and Malbec, but these are foreign topics to Emma. Eric asks what she would like to eat, and orders for her. Then they’re alone.
She begins her careful journey inside Eric’s mind. “Where were you living, before you came here?”
“Most recently, I was in Santa Catarina.” He spreads his crisp white napkin across his lap.
“Were you building a house there?”
“Yes. I was commissioned to design and build a vacation home for a wealthy couple. Well, for his wife mostly. The man wasn’t interested in the project, but the woman was the one who . . . wanted it.”
He’s uncomfortable answering her, and she assumes what it was that the wife wanted from Eric, or what he took from her.
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Actually, they speak Portuguese there.”
“Oh.” Emma bites her tongue. She’s broadcasting her lack of worldly knowledge. Boston and Pine Lake have been the extent of her travels. “So you speak Portuguese, then?”
“Yes.” The black of his clothes makes his eyes seem an even deeper blue, and Emma struggles to keep focused on her goal.
“I’ve heard it’s a beautiful language. Will you say something?”
His face is devious yet tender. He rests his elbow on the table, and his arm flexes as he clears his throat. He speaks in a low and intimate voice . . . almost a whisper. “ Sua beleza é um presente para mim. Seus lábios são celeste, sua pele tão macia .” 3
She has no idea what he’s said, but she feels herself flush. The spark has ignited an inferno, and she fears she’ll soon become nothing but a pile of ashes. His mouth is closed, but his eyes are still speaking to her,
“Well, then,” he says, “it looks like I’m taking you out to dinner.”
The Jeep smells like leather. The light from the dashboard makes Eric’s knuckles look white as he manipulates the stick shift. Emma stares straight ahead, wondering where he’s taking her. The radio plays, just loud enough to prevent awkward silence in the car. He glances at her as he drives and she looks away. Longing engulfs her. Now that she has touched him, she wants more, she needs more. But she doesn’t know how to get it. She has to get inside his head.
She envisions what would’ve happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. Perhaps he would have made love to her . . . on the living room floor . . . on the couch. She would have finally been the one to meet his need. His restraint surprised her, but in a way, it was a blessing. Anything more than a kiss would’ve been too much. It would have been too fast. Her head tells her it’s for the best, but her body disagrees. She’s attracted to him, but she doesn’t want to be just a conquest. She wants him, over and over again. To be the sole object of his desire. The only one. It’s an unrealistic expectation, but she yearns for it nonetheless.
The restaurant is dark inside. It’s the kind of place illicit couples come to hide, to avoid being caught. The aromas of fresh bread and spices fill the air. Eric speaks to the olive-skinned hostess, and they follow her to the back of the restaurant. She seats them at a secluded, candlelit table near a bay window. There are no chairs, just a cushioned bench seat on the windowsill. Emma and Eric have no choice but to sit right next to each other.
Emma looks at the menu, and Eric studies the wine list. Their arms brush against each other, and Emma feels the powerful pull to him. The warmth of his body fans the spark inside her and she lets herself rest against his heat.
“Do you want to get a bottle? Oh, that’s right, you don’t drink.”
A glass of wine sounds like a perfect antidote to Emma’s nerves and unsatisfied lust. “I guess a glass or two won’t hurt. I like red.”
Eric smiles. “All right.”
The waiter arrives and Eric orders the wine, chatting about Argentina and Malbec, but these are foreign topics to Emma. Eric asks what she would like to eat, and orders for her. Then they’re alone.
She begins her careful journey inside Eric’s mind. “Where were you living, before you came here?”
“Most recently, I was in Santa Catarina.” He spreads his crisp white napkin across his lap.
“Were you building a house there?”
“Yes. I was commissioned to design and build a vacation home for a wealthy couple. Well, for his wife mostly. The man wasn’t interested in the project, but the woman was the one who . . . wanted it.”
He’s uncomfortable answering her, and she assumes what it was that the wife wanted from Eric, or what he took from her.
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Actually, they speak Portuguese there.”
“Oh.” Emma bites her tongue. She’s broadcasting her lack of worldly knowledge. Boston and Pine Lake have been the extent of her travels. “So you speak Portuguese, then?”
“Yes.” The black of his clothes makes his eyes seem an even deeper blue, and Emma struggles to keep focused on her goal.
“I’ve heard it’s a beautiful language. Will you say something?”
His face is devious yet tender. He rests his elbow on the table, and his arm flexes as he clears his throat. He speaks in a low and intimate voice . . . almost a whisper. “ Sua beleza é um presente para mim. Seus lábios são celeste, sua pele tão macia .” 3
She has no idea what he’s said, but she feels herself flush. The spark has ignited an inferno, and she fears she’ll soon become nothing but a pile of ashes. His mouth is closed, but his eyes are still speaking to her,
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