Eight
Rosalie's expression is guilty as sin.
"Oh. Look who's finally back?" I twist on the kitchen stool to look at her.
"Yep," she's still wearing her pink dress, her shoes in hand, hair messy, "I'm back. All the dicks are gone."
I'd popped them all with one of her knitting needles and thrown them away.
"Did you…" I begin.
"Yep," she nods.
I try to hide my amused smile, dipping my head low to invest my gaze in my cereal.
"But… he. He didn't have a girlfriend. She was just some girl he was seeing casually," she defends.
"Was it good?" I ask.
"Holy shit yes," she groans out, "I thought he was going to snap me in half. I can't have sex with another man again. He is an unbeatable standard."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I say, "do you think you'll do it again?"
"God I hope so," she sighs dreamily, "I'm already getting hot thinking about that shower we shared."
"Okay. Well. I have my own date night tonight," I say, "Edward is taking me out."
"No way!" She is beaming at the news.
"Yeah. He's picking me up this evening so I need to get some study done about Alice's life. I'm going to have her come around tomorrow to take some photos of us faking a college graduation. Can you be around to fake a workout. I photoshopped Angela into an Italy picture and Tanya went by there today to take some photos in her dresses," I explain, "just as insurance if people quiz us about knowing her. I know a guy at my old job who can make them look seamless."
"Okay sure, but back to Edward," she moves toward me, "what are you wearing?"
"He said I should wear something that can get dirty," I say, "maybe it's paintball?"
"He's going to take you to get shot with paint? Doubt it," she shakes her head.
"Probably jeans and a shirt," I shrug, "nothing too special."
"Oh, babe. No," she shakes her head, "let me go dig through my stuff. I'll find something. Also, wear panties and a bra that match, please. Fuck your comfort."
"I'm not having sex on the first date," I say.
"Why not?" She looks at me.
"I have self-respect," I answer.
"I had sex on the second introduction," she rolls her eyes, "best sex of my fucking life too. Do you think it would be weird if I text and ask him to come by tonight if you're not going to be home? I need more."
"Just clean the surface you pick if it isn't your bed," I scrunch my nose up.
Rosalie pulls together an outfit consisting of black tights, a cute casual brown mini skirt and a black turtleneck sweater for me. I pull up the sleeves slightly and pull my hair into a messy bun. Bits fall across my face, twisted into a soft and natural curl.
"Perfect. Let him imagine everything under all that. We don't have to shove your tits in his face. You did that last night," she smiles at me, "now put on ankle boots and I think you're ready."
"He's going to be here any second," I slip them on before rushing to my dresser to spritz perfume on.
I kept the make-up fairly minimal and my accessories were limited to hoop earrings and a few casual rings. Rose lets him in as I finish up the final touches.
I smile immediately when I see him at first. He holds a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates in his hands. When he smiles at me I feel thankful for Rosalie's fashion help. His eyes run up and down in a clear appreciation. Mine do the same to him.
His dark jeans, light brown sweater, a scarf. He looks delicious. I can smell his cologne from across the room.
"Wow," he mutters.
"You got me flowers," I move toward him to accept the gifts, "Edward, this is so kind. Thank you so much."
"You're welcome," he nods, "are you ready?"
"I am," I say, "Rose, can you pop these flowers in a vase? Help yourself to chocolate too."
"Of course I can," she smiles at us both, "you kids have fun."
We head downstairs, side by side, in a silence that is comfortable. When we step onto the street I follow as he leads me toward a black car parked on the side of the street.
"In here," he points to it.
We climb in and he instructs his driver to go. Fancy.
"How has your day been?" I ask.
"It was slow. Better now," he looks at me, "how about yours?"
"Tiring. I slept a lot. The hangover was slightly intense this morning," I laugh, "I forget I can't drink the same way I did five years ago."
"Those tequila shots kept coming. Emmett never knows when to stop with those," he shakes his head.
"So where are we going?" I ask.
"I was hoping you'd be up for something fun. Then maybe a spot of dinner?" He looks at me.
"That sounds interesting," I nod.
"I try my best to be," he runs his hands over his thighs, almost appearing slightly nervous.
When we arrive he offers me his hand to get out of the car. I accept it, thanking him as he pulls me to the sidewalk.
"Here we go," he keeps his hand in mine, tugging me gently toward the doors of the building.
My eyes search for a hint of where we are. But nothing jumps out. We're still in the city, but it's quieter here.
When we walk through the door we walk up a set of stairs and into a warm room. It appears to be a studio.
"Where are we?" I ask.
"This way," he chuckles, pulling me gently down a hallway.
We walk into another studio that's slightly smaller. There are mirrors and light wood floorboards. It appears to be a dance studio that has been converted into an art space. Paint splatters mark sections of the wood below us and there are easels around the room haphazardly.
"Is this… you like art?" I look at him.
"I appreciate good art yes," he nods, "I like all things art. Music, painting. I love to play piano. I'll have to show you that next time. But I watched Ghost the other night and it got me thinking."
He drops my hand and walks toward a low table with a spin table ontop of it. I watch him pick up two aprons, before turning back to me.
"You make pottery? You brought me here to do ceramics?" I ask in a happy state of shock.
"My mother taught me as a kid," he nods, "despite all that brainless CEO crap, zoning out and doing things is relaxing. I like cooking too. I thought we could share this considering the craziness of last night. Less lap dancing too."
My mouth opens and shuts slightly. I wasn't expecting this at all.
"Pop this on and I'll show you," he hands me an apron.
I pop it on and tie it around my back.
"Do you own this place?" I ask.
"God no. My mother's best friend does. I gave her son an internship so she owed me," he puts his own apron on as he speaks, "she gave me the place for the night so long as I lock up. She teaches classes and commissions pieces here. She's done a lot of work for my mother."
He guides me to a low stool, taking a seat on one placed beside me.
"Okay," he fiddles with the wheel, and I notice there's a pedal at my foot.
Patiently I sit there as he gets up to bring back water, a lump of clay and a kit of different utensils.
"You have any thoughts about what you want to make?" He returns to his seat beside me.
"Perhaps a vase. To put your beautiful flowers in," I glance at him.
"Let's do it," he scoots closer and plops a small lump of clay in the center of the table.
"I don't know how," I look at him lost.
"Thankfully you have a brainless CEO who does," he takes my hands in his, guiding them to the cool clay, "now the pedal at your foot will make the table spin. But first, put a little bit of water on your fingers. Just a small amount to start."
For a moment I stare at him nervously as he lets my hands go.
"What is it?" He asks.
"I don't want to fuck up," I let out an anxious, breathy laugh.
"You won't," his smile is warm, as he scoots even closer, twisting his body.
He has one of his inner thighs cuddled behind my back, his other by my knee. I'm in between his legs essentially, his hands on his thighs prepared to reach across me to intervene in any mistakes.
"Just press the pedal lightly to get the feel for it," he says.
I do as he asks and jump a little at the rotation. My fingers make an imprint in the clay from my startled reaction.
"That's it," he encourages, reaching a hand out to hold mine steady, "keep it going. You need to mould it into a sort of mountain shape."
He dips his fingers into the water beside us before moving to help me form the shape we need. My eyes take it all in, trying to understand what on earth is happening to me. How on earth this is happening? I'm trying to follow his instructions while ignoring how he's so close.
"That's it, baby," he whispers, "you're doing an amazing job."
We work together to push the wet material into a vase shape. My fingers create structure in the walls, his hands guiding mine where there's weakness.
"Is this the part where you sing unchained melody?" I flick a glance at him, before returning my gaze to my work.
"Patrick Swayze did have game. Gotta give him that," he moves slightly, taking his hands away, "let's see just how romantic and sexy it is when I do this."
He scoots his stool behind mine and retakes his seat. Placing a leg on either side of me, he moves in close behind me, wrapping both his arms around my body so he can reach for the clay.
"Oh yeah. Now we're talking," he pushes his chest against my back.
I try to control my breathing.
"I thought you said there would be less lap dancing," I bite out, keeping my eyes glued to the clay.
"If you even think of grinding that beautiful ass back onto me, we're going to turn the recreation of this ghost scene into a very R-rated one," he sounds as if he's not only threatening but promising.
"Inspiring," I smirk.
He removes his hands with a scoff, grabbing a wire he carried over with some other tools.
"Want to cut the top off? Just to make it a little more even at the opening. Then you can draw a pattern in it. We'll pop it into the kiln to bake. I'll order us dinner while it bakes," he says.
"We're eating here?" I ask.
"I thought it would be quieter. Just trust me, baby," I feel his smile over my shoulder.
While he prepares the vase to bake, I sit at the turntable picking at the wet clay in my hands.
"I hope none got on your clothes," he returns, standing above me, watching me pick at my hands.
"It's fine. They're Rosalie's anyway," I stand up, looking up at him.
"Oh shit," his focus narrows in on my forehead, "you got some…"
His thumb reaches up to drag across my head. I watch his face as he focuses. But the moment something wet and cold lands there I smack his stomach with a squeal. He laughs, moving his clay-covered hand to smear across the rest of my face.
"This part wasn't in Ghost," I squeal as he lands his hand on my cheek.
I reach my own hands up to press prints into his face. He doesn't fight me, he lets me take my own hit.
Muscled arms wrap around me and I fight through fits of giggles, twisting against his hold while hoping he keeps hold of me. My body pulled tight against his, I feel my shape melt into his. Those expert fingers cup my face and I don't really give a fuck that he's pressing even more clay into my face and hair.
I give a fuck that he's leaning in. My hands press into his torso, as I lean up to meet his invitation.
We're happy to meet this way. Our lips press together in a kind of magic that doesn't exist in the average human experience. It's just between us. We move as one force, kissing like it was the last second of life given to us.
His grip stays firm, holding me in place. As if I'd go anywhere.
I feel everything he has in this kiss. Everything he has held back since the moment we met. Everything I've held back too. We swap battle scars and lay down our weapons in one defining moment.
I let out a moan that was 100% unintentional - but also wasn't. It's what he needs to pull us in deeper. Pushing in closer, tilting my head further back so he can request more access.
Opening my mouth I let him in. I see colours of white behind my closed eyes as we make out. His tongue traces and twists with my own, taking the dominance but not hogging it. He lets me be greedy too.
I gasp as he bites down playfully on my lip as he pulls back, a wicked grin before me, as my chest rises and falls.
"You are so incredibly beautiful," he croaks out, clearly blown away too, "your heart, your soul, your smile, your eyes, your fucking ass. All of you. Every inch is beautiful."
"You haven't seen every inch. I could have a weird-shaped mole," I tease, pushing into his body, enjoying the feel of him against me.
"Oh I can't wait to find it and suck on it," he growls out.
He makes me laugh. Harder than I would like. Because I let out a small snort, which in turn earns me a shake of his head in an amused sort of way, before he places another sweet, short kiss on my lips.
"Come on," he says, "let's clean you up. You managed to get some on your face."
"Oh I wonder how that happened," I roll my eyes sarcastically as he lets me go, with a sweet kiss to the clean section of my forehead.
Thanks for reading x
