So sorry for the delay in updates; this one's nice and long for y'all (that's what she said, lol).
For the first time in a while, I take a selfie.
Afro stretched and wound into a regal updo of chunky twists.
Slinky black slip dress with razor-thin straps and not a stitch of fabric in the back.
Fire engine red lip.
Grandma's emerald pendant necklace and stud earrings.
No glasses.
I post it to Instagram, no filters, with a simple caption: "Date Night." Then I slip on my heels, grab my clutch and head out into another unusually warm night—no coverup necessary.
As my Uber crawls through the Village, I smother the feeling of dread that accompanies waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Nebula hasn't had anything to report since that unusual gamma spike, which has us all scratching our heads. Even Charles rubbed his bearded chin when I replayed the simulation for him in my lab and contemplated aloud: "What would cause such an anomaly?" I haven't received a reply from the message I sent through the ISN, either…hopefully dumbass hasn't gotten himself killed.
The only other "off" thing that happens is the temporary closure of Smalls Jazz Club due to the pipes bursting and flooding the place. We ditch that plan and decide to hit up Zinc instead, which is just as well—Lorraine Klaasen is on the marque tonight. She's a South African jazz vocalist, so I already know the music's gonna be good. I'm so ready to dance.
As always, Charles is already standing outside of the club, even though I'm a few minutes early. Sometimes I wonder if he's ever been late for anything in his life. He probably even popped out of his mama's womb on the exact due date, if not earlier. What's interesting is that his attire contains a distinct Pan-African influence that I've never seen on him before, apart from the gold tooth pendant he always wears: a black, modernized dashiki with intricate patterns of gold thread and beads embroidered into the fabric. More than likely silk. He's in the middle of what looks to be a spirited discussion with a couple of patrons, their colorful Pan-African ensembles a stark contrast to his black and gold. They're riveted by whatever story he's weaving as his large hands gesture animatedly yet pointedly, eyebrows raising at the exact moment he drives his point home. But then his face relaxes into that youthful grin as they laugh at whatever he said. He's so good with people.
Alright; enough "spying."
He pauses once he sees me approaching and I catch his eyes widening by just a fraction. Almost like when a deer spots a car coming. I want to stop, but I keep myself from freezing at the last second (like a G, ha ha) and greet him like I hadn't noticed. "Hi!"
His lips slowly morph into a lopsided grin. "Hi."
"…Everything alright?"
"…Absolutely."
…Okay; what happened to Mr. African Dignitary? I know I don't have anything in my nose or on my teeth (cause it's a lip stain—I'm not makin' that rookie mistake) and this dress is nip-slip proof, so…
"Well, let's go in—I've been lookin' forward to this all week!" Without asking, I link arms with him and take a step forward to remind him that the stairs that lead down to the club are straight ahead. "You look amazing, by the way. I feel dumb—I could've broke out my kente cloth or somethin'!"
He briefly looks down at me, chuckling as if a private joke was just told. "What you are wearing…is more than sufficient."
Normally I wouldn't take that as a compliment, but the way his voice seems to glide over every inch of my exposed skin has me feeling warm all over. This man…
Lorraine Klaasen's voice reminds me of a trumpet. Brash, yet pure. Powerful and unapologetic. A siren that attracts natives and descendants of the Motherland like flowers to bees. I don't understand much Xhosa, but I still feel her message. The entire room is buzzing with pride. Feet stomp, hips wind, hands clap and fingers snap as if possessed by her voice and the drums. Everyone moves effortlessly—as if it's in our very blueprint.
She is short in stature, but still commands the room like a queen as she grooves in her bright red dashiki and headwrap, big gold earrings and necklace dancing along with her. Her band is on point; the rhythms and happy melodies evoking images and memories of home. I glance over at Charles and his eyes are closed for a moment as she belts acapella in Xhosa; her lyrics make him smile to himself. Then the beat drops and we're all bouncing and swaying in time with the percussion.
Of course he can dance. He got skills (as do I; don't get it twisted). It's just…man, I don't know how or why he keeps surprising me whenever he decides to "let loose", but the way he move them hips—especially on me—got me wonderin' what's really good. The angel on my right shoulder is wagging her finger at me for thinking about breaking my promise to myself already. The devil on my left shoulder's reminding me to use a rubber. For this reason, I'm extremely careful with my alcohol consumption—just one cocktail and then nothing but club soda with lime. I mean…it doesn't help much when his hand is splayed against my bare back while we're dancing pelvis to pelvis, but…better than nothin'.
It's after midnight when the set is finished and we venture out into the night to hail a cab. The windows are rolled down a bit so we can air out from all that dancing. Next stop is a restaurant—any restaurant. I do have a craving for the chicken salad I ate when we first met, so I casually suggest Devil's Kitchen.
To my surprise, he agrees. "I think that's doable."
"Whaaat? You mean I'm no longer banned from Hell's Kitchen?"
"I never said you were banned," he comically drags out the last word, "I simply requested that you allow me to escort you to and from Hell's Kitchen. Which I am!"
"My bad; yes, you are."
He reaches over and gently pinches a bit of skin from my shoulder between his fingers. I let out a dramatic "Oww!" and rub my arm as he laughs at my overacting: "Stop it!"
The driver just might have to separate us.
An incoming storm from out of nowhere is advancing on us as the taxi comes to a stop in front of Devil's Kitchen.
"Perhaps we should make this a carryout order," Charles suggests as we duck into the restaurant. The wind is starting to pick up, putting a damper on the unusually muggy night.
"And go where?"
"My apartment is not far from here. We can at least be comfortable while we wait for the storm to pass."
Brian the Cook whips up two huge chicken salads and is sure to add extra croutons on the side. I've never really had the chance to talk to staff here, but he seems like a cool guy. Younger than us, tough and gruff on the outside, but secretly gooey like a cookie on the inside. We rush out into the wind and sprinkles of rain, jogging in our nice footwear even though our feet are surely aching. Luckily, his building is about two blocks away. It's an old five-floor walkup that's pretty typical for this part of town. We duck into the lobby not a moment too soon: the sky opens up and we breathlessly laugh at our timing as we watch the rain pelt everything in torrential sheets.
"Come; we'll take the elevator."
He hums the melody of one of the songs we heard at the club as the elevator crawls to the 4th floor. Seamlessly, the humming morphs into quiet singing. His voice is actually kinda nice; each phrase starts and ends with a rough but pleasant rasp, occasionally punctuated by the famous clicks of his native tongue. I watch him out the corner of my eye and wonder if he's even aware that he's singing—there's a dreamlike quality to his voice that reminds me of people talking in their sleep. All of a sudden, he turns to me and starts beatboxing the rhythm, hips bumping and winding. Shit, I'm not shy—I pop my hips right along with him, completely forgetting that my feet hurt as I bust out some of the footwork he showed me back at the club. The elevator dings, but that ain't stoppin' our dance party. I follow his lead as we quietly strut down the hallway (it is after midnight after all) to a door marked 407 all the way at the end.
"Whoo!" he hoots, but then cringes at his volume. "You are a good dancer. I like the way you move."
"You surprised? 'She's well-versed in binomial approximation: you know she has no rhythm,'" I mimic his accent, which makes him snort. Yes, snort.
"No, no, no…I had absolutely no doubt that you could dance. I watch you walk sometimes and I'm curious as to what song is playing in your head—I want to dance, too."
He unlocks the door and makes his way in first to flip the lights on. "Please, come in."
What I see is definitely not what I expect.
This is what a restaurant manager's salary gets you?
Actual space. Hardwood floors. A fireplace. A full, open kitchen. A fucking terrace. It's modest, yet clean and inviting, filled with second-hand furniture that's obviously well-cared for. The color scheme is rich and deep, and it seems like every wall houses a shelf stuffed to capacity with books. A scholar's pad. Charles migrates over to the kitchen, where he sets our bags on a small island counter, and produces a bottle of wine from a cabinet.
"Please, make yourself at home. Perhaps I can give you a tour before we eat."
I'd already taken my shoes off and left them on the mat by the front door, so I don't feel as bad for padding around his living area in my bare feet. I'm automatically drawn to the sliding glass doors that lead out to the terrace. The rain is beating against them and distorting the view—it almost looks like Hell's Kitchen is drowning. I'm sure the view is gorgeous whenever the weather's cooperative. I can easily imagine him sitting at the little patio set, nose deep in a book, while nursing a cup of tea. Very picturesque.
The steady cadence of rain is briefly drowned out by the sound of the sink running. Charles washes his hands before he sets to the task of extracting the to-go containers from the plastic bags and then transferring the salads to two decently-sized artisan bowls. I scoot behind him to wash my own hands. Stainless steel sink. Stainless steel everything for that matter. Granite countertops. As I dry my hands on a microfiber towel, he reaches around me to grab a wine opener from the drawer right next to me.
"Would you like a glass?"
I shrug. Why the hell not? "Sure."
He then pulls two wine glasses from the cabinet above my head, his front briefly brushing against my back. Yeah, I could move. To be polite, I should move. We barely make contact, yet, I can feel his heat radiate into my skin and I'm not the least bit sorry about it. I'm sure he knows it, too—I peep how he lingers a moment longer than is necessary. It may just be all in my head, but I swear I arch my back a few centimeters. If he were to push up on me…
Danger zone. I'mma have to be real careful with this wine.
He doesn't own this two-bedroom, two-bathroom penthouse apartment—he's just subletting from an acquaintance who is currently out of the country on business and won't be back until his contract is up in another six months. This makes sense to me—to be honest, he'd have to be slangin' dope on the side to be able to afford monthly rent. As it is, he's only responsible for half of it. A pretty cush deal, if I do say so myself. All the furniture belongs to the acquaintance, but a lot of the books are his. So is the computer in the second bedroom, which is more office space than anything. The main bedroom is sparsely decorated in shades of blue, but still cozy-looking. Another sliding glass door leads out to the terrace from here. The bathrooms are small, yet quaint with classic white porcelain fixtures. There's even a nice little window in one of 'em (with a curtain, of course) that lets you look out at the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen. All in all, a very nice place for a killer deal.
We sit on stools at the island counter and eat our salads without much conversation between us—at least not until the food's gone. There's a huge piece of sweet potato pie still in the bag, which I definitely didn't order, but we decide to wait until dinner settles before splitting it.
"I'm gonna have to go to the gym after it's all said and done," I recline against the counter's lip and take a sip of wine. Red. Full-bodied, but not dry. Nice selection!
"We should go together. You haven't sparred with me in quite some time!" Charles cocks an eyebrow that could easily be read as admonishing.
"See, there's a reason for that—I get my ass handed to me every single time! God forbid I get into some real trouble again—I'd be useless."
Charles simply shakes his head while swallowing a sip. "No. You are stronger than you realize. You are also highly analytical, which can lend itself tactical measures used during a fight—if you can stop admitting defeat before you even begin."
Well, damn. He sure read me.
"Okay, in my defense, it's one thing to 'practice' fighting with you, but it's a whole 'nother story when you're held up in an alley by five dudes—"
"And you could beat them all one by one with enough training. You already have the advantage of not appearing as a threat to your assailants. They become arrogant and drop their guards. It is up to you to determine the opportune moment in which to strike and never let up until you are free. But you must keep a level head. You are very good at thinking on your feet and following the next logical step. You must apply these skills whenever you are sparring."
I nod, 'cause I get the gist of it. However, I've always been a hands-on learner. "Show me."
He quickly swallows another sip. "Pardon?"
"I'm sorry; can you please show me?" I adjust my tone. Don't wanna be bossy.
"Now?"
"Sure, why not?"
His response is an "Ehhhhh…" as he openly scans my attire.
"Got any sweatpants? I'll slip 'em on underneath this dress. See? Thinkin' on my feet already. C'mon, please?"
"Alright. If only to humor you."
"Yes! Let's do this!"
I honestly don't know why I'm so pumped about fighting. It's probably not even about that. It's more about the excitement and anticipation that comes with testing a new theory for the first time. Hopefully this one will get me "unstuck" and I can have a fighting chance for once—no pun intended.
He comes back with a pair of black PUMA joggers that I have to roll up a little even though they taper at the ankle and cinch them around my waist as far as they'll go. Then he pushes the couch, recliner and coffee table to the far corners of the room, leaving just the large throw rug and the hardwood floors. I step into the "arena", heart pounding with nervousness but feeling a little more hopeful than I usually am before sparring with him. That is, until he draws himself up to his full height as he steps in, eyes locking with mine. Looking so…predatorial. Just as my spine stiffens, he speaks:
"Your first instinct is fear. I can see it manifesting in your body."
Damn.
"It's alright…do you trust me?"
Mama always told me that it ain't a matter of if you trust another—it always comes back to trust in yourself. My skills in this area are pretty limited (I leave that shit up to my Avenger buddies), but I trust in my determination to push past fear and to fend for myself—I've always been able to count on that. Therefore, my answer is more of a self-affirmation: "Yeah."
"Then close your eyes."
I comply. Automatically, my other senses tune into my surroundings to compensate. The rain beating staccato rhythms against the sliding doors. The feel of the plush floor rug beneath my feet (hope we don't get rug burn…). The receptors just beneath my skin, tingling, searching for anyone nearby, waiting for touch. The click of a light switch. The warm glow behind my eyelids is cut off. All I can see is black. Footsteps quietly creaking on the hardwood. I can feel the floor vibrate under his steps as he comes closer. The skin on my shoulder nearly crackles and I shrink back just as his hand makes contact.
"Did you feel that?" he asks.
"Your hand?"
"More importantly, your body warning you that my hand was going to touch you."
"Yes."
"If honed properly…that can be one of your greatest assets in combat."
His footsteps shift—he's off to my side ...now he's behind me—circling me? My skin latches on to his body heat signature, on the static electricity between us. Again, I sense his hands reaching for my neck before they make their mark. It's a creepy sensation that has me spinning around to grab his wrists.
"Eyes closed."
I obey, though my eyebrows furrow at the harsh edge in his whispered command, which he smoothens over, voice suddenly like salve on a wound.
"Instincts, intliziyo yam. No matter how afraid you are…trust them always. Now…open your eyes."
I slowly crack them open. The apartment is completely dark, save for the light from the street lamps shining through the windows, casting moving waterfall shadows on the floor. He's still behind me, breaths deep and steady, waiting…
A hand shoots out and grabs my forearm to twist my shoulder into submission. My free elbow slams into his solar plexus and one of my heels lands a kick to his shin, giving me just enough time to wind my way out of his grip. Inwardly, I wince as he quickly regains his balance and rubs the spot where I elbowed him, something foreign flashing in his eyes. Fuck, what did I do—no! Instincts. Instincts and logic and confidence. Instincts and logic—
Charles drops down into a crouch to sweep my legs out from under me with a swift kick. I jump back, startled by the sheer speed—alright, he's not goin' easy on me. Think! Okay, I'm down; he's down—just keep moving. We circle each other, crouched over like creatures. Whenever I feel like he's getting too close, my hand shoots out to try and throw him off balance, if only for a second. I know he's calculating my every move, which fills me with a dual sense of urgency and dread. He's the more experienced fighter—I'm well aware that he could end this fight right here and now if he wanted to—
Admitting defeat before you even begin.
I'm on the ground before I can even blink. The wind leaves my body in a harsh grunt. Can't let him get the upper hand! My thighs lock around his midsection and squeeze with all their might. I shove my crossed forearms against his throat and roll us onto our sides. Unfortunately, his momentum is stronger and I wind up on my back, underneath him and the floor, with his forearm against my windpipe.
Stay calm. Next logical step. Gotta put those arms out of commission. What do I always tell myself? No such thing as a crazy idea…that's a lie, but it always makes me feel better.
I grip his forearm in both hands and swing my legs up and over into a backwards somersault. His muffled exclamation as my back smushes his faces triggers a twinge of guilt—that probably hurt…Fuck it, I'm free! I scramble into position—thighs holding him in a chokehold. Then I grab his arm and twist—just like he planned for me; just like that asshole in the alley ended up doing. He doesn't scream like I did, but his entire body tenses as he seethes.
"Enough," he taps my thigh with the hand that was trying to fend off the chokehold. My limbs slowly unravel to release him, burning from their efforts. Chest heaving, I stare up at the ceiling in disbelief, not quite sure what to do next. Celebrate 'cause I actually managed to defend myself? Pout 'cause he probably let me win? Apologize for smashing his face?
Meanwhile, his chest is making my thigh bounce up and down from his silent laughter. "I will…I will have to use that move!" He eventually cackles.
I snarl, suddenly feeling territorial. "Nuh-uh! That's my move!"
"A good fighter always learns from his or her opponent…as you obviously demonstrated with that chokehold. It was done to you; therefore, you absorbed and applied it during a later challenge," he gently cradles me against his side. My eyes drift shut as his fingertips indulge in their favorite pastime of tracing circles around my spine—only this time, the contact is skin-to-skin: dangerously delicious.
"Do I get a prize for winning this round?" I find myself questioning.
Even as he answers, my legs are intertwining with his: "You may have whatever you desire."
One peck on the lips is all it takes.
I don't know if it's the adrenaline from the fight, his fingers' ministrations or the abrupt flashback of us rolling around on the floor while my legs hold his waist in an iron grip. But our kiss is bordering on desperate. Lips smacking. Tongues wrangling. Teeth clicking. And then I'm back on my back and he's back in between my legs which are squeezing him, pressing him against create more of that addictive friction. On a whim, I push on his shoulder to roll us over. Now I'm on top, straddling his hips as his nails rake the exposed skin on my back. Then I bite him—I actually bite him! My teeth nip at the skin on his neck, just above his collarbone, before soothing it with a lazy drag of my tongue, drawing out a prolonged hiss from him. His hips surge upward before rolling slowly, deliberately, hinting at something…very promising. I gasp against his lips as he pants into my mouth, eyes screwed shut:
"Intombi engaluganga."
His add-on of "Eh?" is punctuated by a stinging slap to my ass, which makes me release the moan I was so desperately trying to suppress.
Jesus, I've gone crazy. Since when am I like this?
Since he turned you on like this, that's when.
I'm supposed to get the missing piece of the formula before we do this.
You want him. You care about him. He wants you. He cares about you. Subtract unnecessary values—don't add them.
"We do not have to do this."
His declaration, gravelly with need, snaps me back to the present. My face is buried in his neck. It's there that I finally admit: "I want you."
"And you can have me. Whenever you'd like. It does not have to be now."
I use his broad chest as leverage to push myself up. His eyes are heavily-lidded, but his gaze gradually sharpens into polished onyx as he sits up, still cradling my lower half against him. The question "Why not now?" must be written all over my face. So, he answers: "You hesitate… I will not try to persuade you to ignore this for the sake of bedding you. When we make love, I want your full permission and trust. For I promise you: there will be no turning back, and the last thing I want you to feel is regret."
I can't help but smile as our foreheads rest against each other. Don't get me wrong, my baser instincts are screaming at him to just get inside of me, but his words fill me with a warmth that has absolutely nothing to do with our current state (well…almost nothing). He's painted a picture of unrestrained bliss, all hinging on unwavering trust—something that's important to me, whether I choose to acknowledge that right now or not. It'll always be there. It's a relief to know that it's equally okay to want him and to wait for…as he put it, the opportune moment.
Knock knock knock.
We both freeze.
I clap a hand over my mouth—I can't believe we're in here thinking that our activities were silent! I'll bet his neighbors are pissed!
"Ah. That might be my downstairs neighbor," Charles mutters over my chortling. "These floors are reinforced with concrete, but there might have been a couple of bumps that were too loud to ignore."
Knock knock knock.
"I'm alright, Mr. Nantakarn; I simply stubbed my toe on my desk!" he shouts with a sly grin. I slap his shoulder and mouth, "You are so bad!"
Knock knock knock knock knock!
His brow creases as he lifts me from his lap. My body whines at the loss of contact, but I stay put on the floor and try to pin a wayward twist back up into my up-do. The door opens and my ears immediately pick up his rapid switch to Xhosa. Whoever his guest…scratch that, guests are, they are obviously also fluent, speaking to him in hushed tones and clicks.
A man and a woman, both with skin the color of polished ebony, dressed in trendy, yet understated activewear. Charles turns the lights on and it seems to reflect off the woman's bald head like a mirror. Her eyes scan the apartment, obviously confused by the furniture pushed around every which way, until she spots me sitting on the floor. Her eyebrows shoot up and her gaze narrows to slits soon afterwards…around the same time the guy notices me.
You'd better say something before this gets awkward.
"Hello," I come to a stand and wave.
"Hello," the man greets, seemingly caught off-guard. The woman is now examining my slip dress and men's joggers with some trademark Side-Eye. Like a jilted wife/girlfriend. Or an overprotective sister.
"Dolly, these are my cousins Samuel and Sophia. They just arrived from the Congo. Cousins: this is Dolly Knight."
Recognition quickly flashes on both faces. "Ay, yes," Samuel slowly nods. "The famous American scientist. Charles has always spoken highly of your work." I jog over to shake his offered hand. My twist falls right back into my face, which I quickly try to bat away before shaking Sophia's. Her grip is unbelievably strong, yet her voice is cool and regal as she smiles: "A pleasure to meet you."
I fight back a wince as she squeezes my hand. "Likewise."
"Forgive us, cousin. We would have called, but the news we bring is somewhat time-sensitive—" he glances over at me, a frown marring his smooth complexion "—family emergency, unfortunately; so we came here straight from the airport."
"I'm sorry to hear that! Let me get out of you guys' way." I start gathering my clutch and heels still sitting by the door.
"How will you get home?" Charles inquires.
"Same way I always do: Trusty Uber!" I reply with a mock salute.
"I will wait with you until it arrives—Ndiza kubuya msiyane, abazala."
Samuel graciously inclines his head in response to whatever was said before waving at me. "It was nice meeting you, Ms. Knight." Sophia politely nods, but the smirk on her face speaks volumes: If anything happens to him, I will hunt you down.
I've seen that glint in the eyes before: she will cut me.
"It was nice meeting you both; good night!"
Once Charles closes the door behind us and we board the elevator, I finally allow myself to cringe."Shit, that was embarrassing!"
"It was not," Charles reassures me.
"Stop tryin' to sugarcoat—you know exactly how bad that looked," I grumble as he gathers me into his arms and kisses my brow.
"Mm. At least your clothes were on, dear. Not to mention that you are spared from walking around with a very visible reminder of what just transpired between us."
I peck the spot on his neck where I'd bitten him, even though I know damn well that's not what he's referring to. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" he retorts right before I kiss the corner of his mouth. "You are teasing me?"
My cute little nod and giggle dies a quick death when he grabs handfuls of my ass and presses himself against me. He's right: his...reminder...hasn't gone anywhere.
"Do not toy with me, Ms. Knight."
Before I can clap back, his lips envelop mine and my hands grasp at his tunic and he hoists me up and my legs wrap around his waist and the elevator dings—
"C'mon; you can't hit the emergency button like everyone else?"
I tear my lips away from his and jump down, "I am so sorry!"
The white lady standing just outside the elevator doesn't seem the least bit perturbed—in fact, she's trying not to laugh her ass off.
"My apologies, Iris. You're coming in rather late," Charles nonchalantly straightens his tunic.
She runs a hand through her blonde hair streaked with gray, the lines of her careworn face twisting into a grimace. "Caseload's been kickin' my ass lately. But hey: it's part of the work. I'm Iris, by the way—Charles's neighbor on the second floor."
"Dolly; nice to meet you."
"Same to you. Well, don't let me disturb you two lovebirds. I'll just take the stairs. Good night!"
"Have a pleasant evening." I can tell he wants to do the chivalrous thing and offer up the elevator, but she's gone before he can even get the words out. Second time around being interrupted—no less embarrassing than the first.
"Oh, my God!" I nearly choke on my laughter as I request an Uber on the app. "The universe just does not want us to get it in tonight! And how come you're so calm and collected about it? She acted like she sees you with women in elevators all the time!"
"You are the first woman she has seen me with. I find that the more I react to a faux pas, the more people tend to talk about it. Hence my 'calm and collected' demeanor."
"Touché. She a lawyer?"
"No, she is a social worker." Oh. Explains the obvious stress.
"Okay. And your downstairs neighborhood is Mr. Natam—Nantark—"
"Mr. Nantakarn. He has a son named Alec. I occasionally bring him along to the gym to spar." Ahh, so I'm not his only student.
"You should open a gym," I muse aloud. "You got the market cornered for people needing self-defense lessons around here."
His shrug is noncommittal. "Perhaps."
It's still raining hard outside, so we stay dry in the comfort of the small, dark entranceway, leaning against the door frame. We're simply two silhouettes making out shamelessly until the sound of a car pulling up regrettably breaks our embrace.
"Call me as soon as you are home," he mutters between one last kiss.
"I will. Thank you for tonight."
"You are most welcome."
I pause before opening the door...then I step out of my heels.
"What are you doing?"
My answer is a swift tug of his joggers down my legs. I toss them his way, step back into my heels and dash out into the rain. It isn't until I'm safely inside the car that I give him a knowing wink and smirk. He shakes his head, eyes suddenly interested in the floor beneath him—if I didn't know any better, I'd say he's blushing—but then he waves until the car is no longer in his line of sight. I melt into the heated leather seats; into the memories of tonight; into the fire pooled deep in my belly from our parting kiss; into the residual warmth from his joggers and caring words.
Call me as soon as you are home.