She likes his cologne.
It's a new one, one that delivers just enough of a slow burn that shoots from her sinuses to her breasts like forbidden lava. He always smells good, but his scent is usually more natural, more of a blend of parent and professional rather than that of raw man. But tonight, he's wearing something different, something special, something she knows is just for her. The thought zings her in places she's all but forgotten.
"I hope the boys are having a good time."
He chuckles at this, the chocolate texture of his voice rubbing delectably across every nerve she has. She longs to know the taste of him-of his mouth, his skin, to see if it matches the description her other senses have wickedly conjured when she lies alone in the silence of her bedroom, feeling her body come alive in ways it hasn't for more than a decade.
Being on a real date with Robin Locksley is akin to walking into a bakery and having to wait your turn in line just to get a sample. She's already salivating, and they've just finished dinner.
"They're hanging out at the house with take-out from Marco's and a pile of movies and games," he states, the chair creaking as he leans back into the wood, making a sound deep in his throat that lets her know he's as full as she is. "I honestly wonder if they've even realized we've gone."
She smiles at this-hell, she's been smiling all evening, so much so that her cheeks are starting to ache. Her face is warm, her skin pink, no doubt, and she only hopes her hair still possesses some semblance of normalcy as often as she's tucked it behind her ear over the past two hours.
"Henry was excited to get to spend the evening with Roland," she utters. "He's hoping to teach him how to play Wizard's Chess tonight."
Their boys have bonded as one night at Marco's Pizzeria turned into two, as the suggestion to go to a movie ended up in an impromptu sleepover at her place, Roland sharing a bed with Henry while Robin's presence on her over-sized sofa kept her awake and restless in her own bed for more than two hours. There had been a bonfire at his place the next Saturday, hot dogs and s'mores roasted outdoors as they sat on hay bales and huddled under old quilts, later warming themselves with apple cider and Yahtzee as the sounds of the country filtered through thick log walls and paned windows. She had allowed herself to fall asleep against him as they sprawled out on his sofa, his chest hard yet comfortable beneath her cheek, the masculine scent of pine wafting into her dreams, teasing her while she slept and making her wake up the following morning feeling delicious, just a little bit wicked and warm from the inside out.
But this is the first time they've been alone. And she's more than a little nervous.
His chair scrapes the floor beneath them in her direction, bringing that addictive cologne of his so close she wants to strip naked and wrap herself up in it.
"Henry was excited?" he echoes. "Roland was the one who was so bouncy I nearly sedated him before you two arrived. I heard him plotting with Little John earlier over all of the things he had planned for them to do tonight. I believe carving a Jack-O-Lantern topped the list."
His hand brushes hers from across the table, making her throat swell and her nipples stand at attention. She wonders if he can see them through her sweater, if perhaps she should have chosen a looser cut for a first official date, but the way his thumb is tracing patterns on the top of her hand has her mind swirling in beams of silver and copper, the sensations he's awakening making her arms prickle with what she thinks must be fairy dust tickling the surface of her skin.
She hasn't felt like this in an age.
"Henry's the perfect babysitter for Roland, you know," he continues, the feel of his fingers on her knuckles making her wish their check would arrive post haste. "I've never felt comfortable leaving him with someone before tonight, but knowing that Henry is used to…"
He stops then, the thick texture of embarrassment sticking to his throat.
"What? Taking care of a blind person?"
She hears the ice clatter in his water glass, noticing this hasty swallow is far louder than his others have been.
"That's not what I meant to say, Regina. I'm sorry."
His discomfort is stifling yet sweet, so strong she can smell it, and she turns her hand palm up, cupping his with a measure of hesitation. His fingers flutter around hers, unsure yet certain, and she licks her lips, feeling like her eighteen year old self rather than a thirty-six year old woman.
"I know you take care of yourself, that you're more than capable of handling life than most people I've met, but you know as well as I do that making your way in a sighted world can be tough on someone without it. Especially-"
He pauses, his tone hurried, his words tumbling over and into one another.
"Especially a child," she finishes for him, melting into the manner his hand squeezes hers.
"Yes." There's a tinge of pain there, his tone conveying the ache of a father who knows his son will never experience a world most take for granted. "I love our life, Regina, what Roland and I have built, what I do, the people I meet because of it." He draws some sort of design on her palm and wrist with the tip of one finger, one that feels otherworldly-Elvish, perhaps, one that somehow makes her feel like immortality clad in dark denim and a cashmere sweater. "But there are times…"
The drawing stops, his breath hitching as she leans in closer.
"There are times it just hits me-how unfair it all is."
He's honest-he's always honest with her, something she appreciates, a change she welcomes from all too often being handled with kid gloves simply because she cannot see.
"And Roland," she utters, feeling his hand still underneath hers. "He's never been without you, has he?"
She knows he's looking at her, can feel the weight of his gaze. The intensity of it tugs deep and low in her abdomen.
"No," he admits, his voice now a ragged whisper. "And I've never been without him. Not for more than a few minutes."
He's like the parent of a newborn stepping outside without the baby for the first time, needing to check the monitor every three minutes to assure himself that nothing has gone wrong.
"Yet you left him with Henry tonight. Why?"
Sweat dots her forehead as she moves to stand on new ground, on a landscape that beckons her with whispers of velvet, a world she's denied herself since she lost the only other man who dared to see her as a woman, the man who gave her Henry. His hand clasps hers then, the rough, inviting texture of it making her hot and cold at the same time.
"I think you know why, Regina."
His whisper caresses her intimately, making the restaurant around them melt into an unfocused haze of pastels. Oh, God. She's both ready for and terrified by this.
The check arrives, and they leave without dessert, a wordless understanding building between them that sucks them together like a vacuum. Her hand stays in his until they reach his car, Ms. Belle strolling silently beside them as Robin helps her into the seat before opening the back door for the labrador to bound inside. The drive to her place is silent, but their hands find each other, her body tingling as his touch hones in on erogenous zones she never knew existed.
They park, and he kills the engine, but neither of them make a move to exit. The air inside the CRV is a moist and heavy aphrodisiac, one that nudges her closer, one that has him shifting on his hip to face her, one that prompts her to let out a sound she's never heard herself make as his palm cups her face and his nose rubs up against hers. Her fingers trace the lines of his cheekbones, caress the rough texture of his stubble, stubble he's told her used to be somewhere between a dark blonde and light brown but now possesses more that it's fair share of gray, stubble she wants to feel on her, pressed against her, in her mouth and grazing places on her body she dare not voice just yet.
But she's burning. God, she's burning up alive for this man.
His breath on her lips tastes like a promise, spicy and alluring, the texture of his mouth as it brushes her own one of dreams and soft leather, one she can't help but sample as her lips part and tease.
"Regina."
Her name sounds like heaven, she thinks before all thoughts are pushed from her mind and his mouth claims her own in a desperate petition. She turns her body into the kiss, reaching out for the woolen texture of his shirt, tasting hints of pork medallions and marsala on his tongue, feeling her bones liquefy as he teases and sucks her mouth. He deepens their kiss, moaning into her, making her mind cascade into tides of rich burgundy that wrap her limbs in silken cords even as they free her body to his touch. His hands tremble as they slide down the sides of her neck, taking up a feather light position on her collar bone, a position that has her pressing her breasts towards him, into him, making him rasp in a manner that lets her know he's just as affected by what they're doing as she is.
The pungent scent of mutual arousal is overwhelming.
"You know," he finally utters, his breath every bit as labored as hers. "I do believe you promised me a drink earlier this evening."
She tries to swallow, finding the maneuver far more difficult than usual, her fingers still fisting into his shirt, her femininity thrumming a pulsating rhythm repeatedly against the seam of her jeans.
"Yes," she finally utters, every muscle she has turning to putty as his forehead touches down on hers. "I believe I did."