***
I flatten my palms against my royal blue cocktail dress. It’s nothing fancy. It’s slim fitting, has no ruffles or tacky straps, and even covers a good portion of my cleavage—not all of it, but enough to blend into a regal restaurant such as this. I sit on a tiny mauve bench-seat with a cushion that is surprisingly more comfortable than the mattress on my own bed, waiting for him by the tall indoor plant just as he wanted me to. When we spoke on the phone and picked a time for lunch, it seemed he knew everything about the restaurant, from the menu right down to the décor. As I glance around the restaurant and then over to the front door, I see him… looking as good as ever in a striking pair of black slacks and a white formal shirt buttoned up at the elbows. That’s twice now I have to remind myself the grass is, in fact, not greener on the other side, and that a perfect face, perfect body, and perfect attitude doesn’t equal perfection where it counts. I’m not talking about cocks, either. I’m talking about intimacy. Intimacy is where it counts. Every single human on this planet needs intimacy—regardless of the length of the relationship…. and maybe those who partake in one night stands need intimacy the most.
Jesse spots me sitting on the bench-seat and I push myself to my feet. His long legs carry him effortlessly as his leather shoes tap rhythmically against the tiles. There’s a certain air about him when he walks. He exudes confidence and class. His head remains high, his shoulders square and his posture perfect. You’d think he was the kind of man who embraces dirty sex, not run from it.
“Alix,” he greets me, his voice surprisingly happy. “Good to see you.”
Jesse extends his large hand to me and I look at it. Handshaking? Ookay. I place my clutch under my arm and put my empty hand in his. Instead of shaking my hand, like I expect, he tugs me in and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. Heat rises in my face as he releases me, and I take a wobbly step back.
“Hey,” I say, sounding a hell of a lot more butch than I wanted to. I clear my throat. “You’re late.”
“I know. I got caught up in a meeting, but I’m here now.” He gestures in front of him. “Let’s eat.”
I step around him and walk towards the host who’s standing by a low, black podium. “Reservation?”
I peer over my shoulder as Jesse leans forward. “O’Ryan.”
Our host taps the screen in front of him a couple of times before beaming widely up at us. “Right this way.”
We follow him through the busy restaurant until he leads us right to our table in the middle of it all. From our table, I can hear the classical music and soft clatter of cutlery against porcelain. It’s a beautiful noise… one I haven’t heard since my partner and I separated. Now that he’s gone, I tend to stick to takeaways and home deliveries, mostly.
When the restaurant host leaves, Jesse reaches around me and pulls back my chair. I try hard not to stare at his lips as they pass by my face. Instead, my gaze settles on his throat… I’ve never been turned on by a throat before but now is as good a time as any. When his chocolate eyes flick to my face, I arch an eyebrow.
“We’ve already slept together. You don’t have to pull my chair out for me.” I tell him as I lower myself into the seat anyway.
“I’m not trying to impress you. It’s this crazy new thing I’m trying out called: ‘being polite’.” He smiles down at me, and I love his snarky side. “Not everyone is as blunt as you.”
I bite my bottom lip, fighting my own smile. “Because that would be so bad, wouldn’t it?” Sarcasm is thick in my voice, and he picks up on it as he lowers himself into his own chair.
“Yes. It’d be horrible.”
He pulls his napkin from his plate and lays it on his lap. I follow his lead.
“You know, I’m not as bad as you think.” I point out.
His stare flicks to mine and flares. For the first time since meeting him at the bar, my throat dries and my excitement bubbles to the surface. “Neither am I.”
His words still me. I get the feeling he’s referring to the night we slept together. How… odd. Was that his intention, or am I reading too much into it?
“You look nice.” he says, his eyes flitting quickly to my dress.
“Thank you.”
The conversation is quickly heading into stilted territory, but I don’t mind. I’m immune to awkwardness. Actually, I think I thrive in awkward situations.
Before the silence extends and causes irreversible awkwardness, a waitress ambles over to us and greets us with a French accent so thick, that I have no idea what she’s saying. Jesse opens his menu and I survey him as he reads through the list. It takes him barely a second to look over the menu before he swiftly closes it.