“You want to see the upstairs?”
Was that part of the code? Well, either way, the answer was yes. “I’d love to.”
The tour made stops in an office, a guest room, and a ridiculously well-appointed bathroom. The tub was about three times as big as Dax’s and—
“This is the master bedroom.”
Right. Master bedroom.
He gestured for her to precede him. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the gray walls, dark wood dresser, and the enormous, masculine-looking bed made up in tones of taupe, gray, and dark green. When she completed her rotation, he was at her side, gently tugging the wineglass out of her hand. She relinquished it and watched him set both glasses on the bedside table. Was this really happening?
His palm on her cheek answered that yes, yes it was. A shiver shot through her, but it was more fear than lust, and to be honest, she felt a little like she might throw up. She’d anticipated being nervous, but not this much. She’d feared that maybe, as with Dax, she’d get to a certain point and have a repeat of that little freak-out in the hotel room. She hadn’t banked on it being so hard to…get started.
Well, if she wanted this, the only thing to do was just do it. So she lifted herself onto her tiptoes. He seemed to know what was coming because he ducked his head to meet her halfway and their lips touched, tentatively at first, and then with more pressure. He was a good kisser, very gradually deepening the kiss and gently stroking her face and neck. When his tongue tested the seam of her lips, it seemed very gentlemanly, like he was formally requesting permission to enter. She smiled against his lips and granted it. It was funny how everything felt very orderly. The opposite of her encounters with Dax, where she’d wanted to climb on top of him, and, frankly, shove her tongue down his throat from the first moment.
Anyway, it wasn’t fair to compare Greg and Dax. Dax had been there immediately post-jilting, when she’d been all raw and emotional, and he’d somehow tripped some switch inside her. In real life, things weren’t so…urgent.
Kissing Greg was not unpleasant. Not at all. But as he let his hands fall to her waist, resting them inside her loose blouse and against her skin above the waistband of her jeans, she started to feel a more than a little nervous. His hands paused, as if he was seeking permission to go further. Who knew this was going to be so logistically complicated?
The hands inched up a little bit more. Right. He was waiting for the go-ahead. Well, here it went. Swallowing the lump that was growing in her throat, she let her own hands float up to the top button of her blouse, gauging his reaction as she began unbuttoning. He stepped back and watched her, concentrating intensely. When she was done, she straightened her arms and let the blouse fall to the floor.
What now? Were they supposed to make out some more with her bra on, or should she take that off, too?
“You’re gorgeous.” He seemed to mean it. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered. “I want you to feel comfortable.”
What did she want? It was a good question. To be brutally honest, mostly she just wanted the notch in her belt that this encounter represented. She wanted to get on with life post-Mason. She wanted to have fun, right? This was supposed to be fun. And if she didn’t stop microanalyzing everything, it wasn’t going to be.
“Is this okay?” he said, as one of his hands floated up.
It was as if she were watching their encounter from above, from outside her body, watching herself nod. His hovered for a moment above her breast. But then the instant he made contact with the fabric of her bra, she was shoved back into her body, the sensation of his hand overwhelming her. “Oh!” She lunged away. Of course, she regretted the outburst immediately.
But it was too late. He stepped back and regarded her quizzically. “It pains me more than you know to say this, but I think this might be a mistake.”
“No! It’s not a mistake! I’m sorry, I just need a little—”
Oh, crap, he was stooping to pick her discarded blouse. “I have to say, I’m getting a weird vibe. I’m not sure you’re ready.”
That had been exactly the phrase Dax used, that night they’d nearly set their room at the Ritz on fire.
“…maybe you’re not over him.” She tuned in to what Greg was saying midsentence.
Not over Dax? There was nothing to get over. A couple of make-out sessions, some banter-turned-kissing.
“Didn’t you say you’d been together seven years? That’s a long time.”
Oh, right. He was talking about Mason. Her ex-fiancé. All right, time to take a cue from the fact that he was now making for the bedroom door. The situation wasn’t salvageable. “I’m sorry,” she said once again, buttoning her blouse. And suddenly, she really, really was. She’d blown it again.