We were alone.
I stared out the window for a moment–the sun was setting, but the sky was still bright, and it seemed a little strange to be going home with a man while it was still sunny out. Wasn’t this sort of thing supposed to happen at a seedy club at two in the morning, not a book launch at eight o’clock?
“I want you to know I don’t make a habit of this,” Ryan said from across the backseat.
“Picking up women at book launches?” I asked, and he smirked.
“Picking up women,” he said. “If I’d known there were women like you at book launches, I would have been to more of them.” I started to laugh, but the sound died in my throat as he turned to me, his hand falling onto my thigh, just above my knee. The spacious backseat felt suddenly cramped. “You know my name, Flora,” he said, his eyes flicking from mine down to my lips, then back up. “May I kiss you now?”
I tipped my chin down a fraction in the barest nod, and then his other hand was coming up to cup my jaw, tilting it back up again. His strong fingers slid through the hair at the nape of my neck, around to the back of my head to pull me in closer. He tilted his own head, and my eyes fluttered closed as his lips–softer than they looked–slotted against mine in a slow kiss.Yes,this was exactly what I needed, I thought, and let myself get swept away, allowing my lips to fall open under his, kissing him back, but letting him lead. Surrendering. I sighed softly as his fingers flexed, his grip on my hair tightening.
“Ryan,” I said, and his mouth captured mine again, more insistent this time. His other hand slid further up my thigh, teasing my skin through the fabric of my dress. I wanted it higher, wished it were under my dress, rather than over top, urged him onwards. I was half-tempted to crawl over into his lap–
We’d stopped. The purr of the engine was gone, the tingling vibration of the road zipping along beneath us had ceased.
“We’re here,” he said, and it sent a thrill of power zinging through me to hear how I’d affected him: his voice was low and husky.
He stepped out of the car, coming around to open my door for me and lifting me out to stand just in front of the stoop of a beautiful brick row home, neat planter boxes hanging in the front windows. He escorted me up the elegant flight of stairs, stopping at the door to slot a key into the lock. It twisted open with a satisfyingly heavy sound.
“Come on in,” he said, and placed a gentle hand on my lower back as I stepped over the threshold.
“Nice,” I murmured, glancing around at our surroundings. Nice was an understatement: we were in a high-ceilinged foyer decorated with what appeared to be antiques, probably picked out by an interior designer. I trailed him through the entrance and into a dark living room, where he switched on a lamp, casting the furnishings in soft, warm light. It was exactly the kind of place a man like himwouldlive, I thought as I tried not to look like I was gaping. Traditional. Established. Nothing like the cramped apartment I lived in, filled with mismatched–although I preferred the termeclectic–thrift store furniture.
“Patio?” Ryan said at my elbow, making me startle. I turned to him and he held out a wine glass to me, half-full of pale, straw-colored wine.
“You have a yard?” I asked, following him through the living room, long and somewhat narrow in the way of brownstones everywhere.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckled, but as we passed through a pair of French doors onto a small veranda, I scoffed.
“You have a yard,” I contradicted him. “InManhattan? Yeah, this definitely counts as a yard.”
A little patio in the same stone as the house ended at a patch of manicured grass. Flowers grew in a terraced garden that lined the walls, closing off a tiny sanctuary, and little twinkling lights gave the whole place a magical appearance that was only somewhat marred by the soccer ball that sat, lonely, in one corner of the yard. Did Ryan play, orhadhe, in college perhaps? He had the body for it. I took a sip of my wine, listening to the hiss and rush of traffic. In the distance, a siren wailed.
“It’s pretty,” I added, walking into the tiny lawn. My wedge espadrilles sank into the soft carpet of grass.
I could feel, rather than hear, him moving closer to me, coming to stand behind me: his broad, masculine body seemed to radiate heat, and that was before he took a final step and closed the distance between us. One hand landed on my hip, fingers moving slowly over the fabric of my dress, and I leaned into the touch as his chest rose and fell against my shoulder blades. I took another sip of wine, letting the taste linger on my tongue, letting the moment–the closeness, the anticipation, the scent of flowers and concrete and grass and exhaust and his cologne–linger on my skin, and then I turned and tilted up my face to him.
He met me halfway, and his lips tasted like wine. His hand tightened on my hip as I deepened the kiss. He was a good kisser: his soft lips moved confidently. Experience, I knew, and on another night, maybe I would be jealous, but not tonight. I nipped at his bottom lip softly with my teeth and he hissed, breaking the kiss.
“Fuck, Flora,” he groaned. “I thought we’d have a glass of wine first, but…” His chocolatey brown eyes were dark. “If you keep kissing me like that, it’ll be straight to the bedroom.”
I nodded. “Yes, please,” I said, and his pupils dilated, reflecting the lights of the garden. He kissed me again, this time just below my ear. I shuddered, letting the want roll over me like goosebumps. But… “I want you to know I don’t make a habit of this,” I said hesitantly.
“Going home with men you meet at book launches?” he asked in a murmur, tipping his mouth to the juncture of my neck and shoulder, planting an open-mouth kiss over my skin that made wetness build between my legs.
“Going home with men,” I said, and he stopped.
“You aren’t… a virgin, are you?” he asked.God, how young did he think I was?
“No, but it’s been–”too, too long.“A while.” I’d been busy the past few months–okay,years–with my teaching schedule.
He released me and a knot of nerves bunched in my stomach, but he only plucked the wineglass from my fingers and turned, striding over to the small table on the patio and putting down both our glasses. “Don’t worry,” he said and looked back, crooking his finger. “I’ll take care of you.” I went to him, as if pulled on a string. He pulled me into him, strong hands wrapped around my waist, sliding down to cup my ass through my dress.
I’ll take care of you.
I tilted up my face to look at him and he leaned down, pressing his lips to mine once again without hesitation. He gripped my ass and held me against him as the kiss deepened, and the tightness in my shoulders and the knot in my stomach relaxed.Yes. This was good. This was exactly what I wanted. Him, tonight…
“Take me to your room,” I murmured against his lips, breaking the kiss.
