I had stood up quickly from the table and, even with shaky legs, managed to pull my underwear and jeans up, practically running into the bathroom to clean up. I stared in the mirror above his guest bathroom sink, admiring the flush in my face and the redness on my neck leftover from the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever felt in my life. And I didn’t feel too much regret.
When I walked out of the bathroom, feeling like I had more control over my feelings, Gavin was standing in the kitchen, drinking a bottle of water and watching me like a hawk. Whereas I felt a bit nervous and unsure, he looked like he wanted to eat me up, causing a low throb to start between my legs. He had held the bottle out to me, asking silently if I wanted a drink, but I shook my head and started for the laundry room.
“I’ll pick you up at seven tonight,” he said. “Text me your address.”
I nodded and didn’t say anything in response, but rather went and folded his laundry. When I was done and came back into the kitchen, he was gone, and I didn’t see him the rest of the time I was there cleaning his house.
My front doorbell rings, bringing me out of my memories, and I stare at myself in the mirror. What is this evening going to hold? Is this a “thank you” dinner? A “thanks for letting me fuck you” type of thing? Or does Gavin want something more from me?
Do I want something more from him?
I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know my heart is racing with fear and excitement.
When I open the door, he’s standing there with his hands casually tucked in the pockets of his dark-washed jeans. He’s got on a dark gray sweater and a black leather jacket, making him look edgy and sinful as hell. His eyes rake down me and back up again, appreciation clear. “You look beautiful,” he says, and I try not to preen under his gaze.
He had said to dress casual for the night and I took him at his word, choosing a pair of boot-cut, dark denim jeans paired with a deep purple turtleneck. I matched a camel-colored, short-waisted, leather blazer along with matching boots in the same color. The finishing touch was a scarf of melded colors of purple, blue, green, and brown that I tied twice, but loosely, around my neck, so it draped about a quarter ways down my chest.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile, and then I try for a little cheekiness. “You look pretty hot yourself.”
He steps forward, across the threshold, and invades every bit of my personal space. Running a finger along my jaw, he murmurs, “Not as hot as you bent over my kitchen table this morning.”
Oh, geez.
My insides instantly melt, my bones liquefy, and I have to take a step back to clear the fog from my brain. Gavin is all too aware of the effect he has on me because he laughs softly and then grabs my hand. “Come on. I’m starved.”
We’ve been making small talk, and I think it’s because we’re both nervous. Well, because I’m nervous. I don’t think Gavin has an apprehensive bone in his body. He exudes confidence and control. He humors me when I ask question after question about his writing career, even admitting that he’s changing the character he based on me in his manuscript. He named her Honey, which is a stupid name in my opinion, but he said he wanted it to be clear she was “sweet” …like me.
I thought that was kind of sweet, so then the name Honey grew on me a bit.
We’re eating at one of the better seafood restaurants in Nags Head, and I just ordered the fried oyster platter. Gavin wrinkles his nose and says, “Why do you North Carolinians fry all your seafood?”
I shrug my shoulders and say, “Everything tastes better fried.”
Gavin disagrees and orders a baked sea bass entree with a grilled veggie mix on the side.
When the waiter leaves, I decide a change of subject is absolutely necessary. “We had unprotected sex.”
Sighing, Gavin takes a sip of his water and sets it back down. “I know. It hit me the minute I slammed home but fuck if I could stop.”
His words… his dirty, filthy words that remind me of how unbridled his passion was, shock me for a moment, and then fill me with a weird warmth. Because it speaks to the fact that he wanted me so badly, that he was out of control. I never thought I’d incite such desire in a man… let alone a man like Gavin Cooke.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Gavin continues. “I swear I’m clean.”
“Always kept it wrapped up?” I quip nervously.
“Always,” he says firmly, his eyes boring into mine. “I’ve done a lot of stuff that would put a permanent blush on those pretty cheeks, but I’ve always been careful.”
“What kind of stuff?” I ask, naïvely… jealously.