He opens the first box, and I see garlic bread rolls. The others are pastas in various sauces—white, red, and some wine-based. He sets them all on the edge of the table and glances at me.
“Which do you want first?”
I roll my lips between my teeth, setting the napkin on my lap.
“How about you choose?”
“You want me to feed you?”
He picks up his fork and takes a few noodles from the first box. Alfredo of some kind.
“Yeah. Go ahead. Fill me up.”
He leans forward, and I take a bite, flavor exploding on my tongue. Damn, that’s fucking tasty, but what’s even better is the way he’s watching me. Expectant. Eager.
“This is really good,” I say, picking up my glass of champagne and taking a small sip to wash it down. “You did good, Cavanaugh.”
I can see his blush in the lights of the city. He reaches over and takes some pasta for himself, but continues to feed me through the course of the meal. Bite after bite until I’m stuffed full of pasta, bread, and champagne. And in between bites, we talk about everything and nothing. He gives me little bits of hislife that I didn’t know about, and I share things I haven’t shared with anyone but Maya.
And a few things only he now knows.
“I like learning more about you,” he says softly. “It makes you so much more. Which is frightening.”
“Yeah.” I know what he means. This whole thing with him is fucking scary.
“I have dessert,” he tells me, leaning back and stretching. “We could have some after a dance.”
I peer at him from under my lashes.
“You asking me to dance?”
“Maybe I am.”
Fucking hell. I shouldn’t do it, should keep my heart safe, but I stand up and move away from the table, leaving him to scramble after me. He stops in front of where I’m waiting and fumbles with his phone.
“Fuck, I need a song. I didn’t think you’d say yes. Thought you’d just say no.”
“I let you fuck my ass, but you thought I’d say no to a dance.”
“Yeah, well…I don’t know if you can dance.”
That makes me roll my eyes. “I grew up with three sisters and a single mom. Of course I can dance.”
He grins, a song playing over the speaker. Something sickly romantic, words that I’ve heard on the radio, talking about new love. Obsession. Sex.
His hands fall to my waist, and mine move up to his shoulders, touching the hair that falls against his neck. His forehead meets mine as we sway to the beat, our bodies getting closer and closer until his thigh is pressed against my hard cock and we’re grinding against each other. Not kissing, but just existing.
Obsessed with one another.
“I should date you more often,” he groans as my fingers thread through his hair. “This is so fucking nice.”
“Yeah, it is.”
His hands slip down to my ass, and he squeezes roughly. “But I told myself no fucking you. Not on our first date. I don’t want this to be about sex.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want you to think this was just to get into your pants.”
