Callie's POV
Fast forward to four days later. I'm a block away from the restaurant where Arizona and I are meeting. Some new fusion restaurant that she picked out.
The food is the last thing on my mind.
I feel good. Sexy, even. I'm freshly-shaven, wearing just a hint of perfume, a new dress, and really sexy underwear.
Not that I'm planning on anything happening. More to boost my confidence than anything else. And maybe a little bit of the first.
As I reach the door, I hike my purse up higher on my shoulder, take a deep breath, and head inside. Wow, this place is ritzier than I thought.
What is the etiquette for this type of thing? Do I get a table? Do I wait for her outside? Do I wait for her inside? For all the dating I've done, I feel like an absolute amateur.
"Are you Calliope?" the hostess asks, looking at me expectantly.
"Yes, that's me."
"Dr. Robbins asked me to keep an eye out for you. Right this way."
See, now that was planning ahead on her part. Get here early. Have a plan. She's like a professional dater or something. I realize I need to up my game.
The hostess leads me across the restaurant, taking me to a secluded section of tables. Arizona is the first thing I see.
She is absolutely breathtaking. She is smiling at me and I am literally devoid of breath, nervous system paralyzed, and I have to teach myself to breathe again. Born again. Like a newborn.
(Wait. Not at all a newborn.)
She stands to greet me, because chivalry is not dead and I will come to know that she believes this, too. We stand for a second, neither saying anything, just smiling smiling smiling away like it's class picture day and this one's going in the yearbook. The difference being that this isn't a fake smile or one that you have to talk me into. This is the brightest smile I own.
This is the first time I've seen Arizona since my little stunt on the subway, and she's even more beautiful than I remember. We've been trading text messages for the last few days and even spoke for an hour last night under the ruse of "hammering out those details" for tonight's dinner. Clearly, I find her personality to be completely charming. But despite feeling an emotional connection to her based on the last few days, I can't help but wanting to gratuitously fuck her, immediately.
Dinner is both comfortable and exciting; learning about her, telling her about me, sharing more smiles than I can count (and if I see those dimples one more time my body may just melt into a puddle of liquid sex).
And I am flirting with her, and god, she is flirting with me.
Not to mention that she keeps biting on that pouty lower lip, and while I can't say with certainly that this isn't just a habit of hers I'm inclined to believe that she knows exactly what she's doing. And that it's working.
"It seems a little surreal to see you again," I admit.
"Why's that?" she says, carelessly running her finger around the lip of her wine glass.
"I don't know. I kind of… feel like I dreamed you."
"Well, Calliope, you are not the first woman to say that to me," she says coyly, and I laugh.
"Is that so?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "Well in that case, I take it back."
"Nope, you said it. You can't take it back."
She's leaning closer to me now, and somehow I think that her chair has inched nearer to me over the course of this dinner.
Later, after we've paid the check but before we make a move to leave, she says:
"Can I be obscenely honest for a second?"
"Yes, please," I say, riveted. She's leaning on her elbow, chin in palm.
"I really want to take you home with me." And I believe her. She's looking at me like she might at any moment devour me. "There's something about you, Calliope… something that makes me want to lose control."
(I couldn't agree more. My reactions to Arizona thus far have been so completely visceral that I almost feel like a different person).
"I want to court you, I really do. Go one some more dates. Take things slow. But you're making it so fucking hard." Her voice is low and husky and there are thousands of butterflies fluttering against ribs 1 through 12 and a bit at the sternum.
"How am I making it hard? I'm not even doing anything."
"Yes you are. God, yes you are." Her exhale is ragged. You bright blue eyes are locked on mine. "You're doing something with that dress, and with those legs, and with the way you keep licking your lips…"
"Well, you already know how irresistible I find you. So much so that I would make a move on you in a crowded subway before I even knew your name," I smiled coyly.
"Yes, that was a pretty bold move, Dr. Torres. You're braver than I, that's for sure."
"I'm not, though. But seeing you made me forget every fucking thing I ever learned about decorum."
"So I think we have the sexual chemistry covered, then?" she asked playfully.
I leaned in so that my lips were just millimeters from her ear. "If you're finding it so hard to stay in control, maybe you should just let go. Show me what out of control looks like."
"I don't want to scare you away," she says, and I can tell that she is genuinely worried that I might be put off by the nature of what she has in mind.
To this, I can only say:
"Don't you worry. I give it just as good as I get it."
I've hooked her now, and it seems that we are, in fact, going to do this thing. We share our first kiss in the backseat of a taxi on the way to my apartment (which is closer to the restaurant than hers).
It is a first kiss to end all first kisses – her lips so much fucking softer than I could have imagined and her tongue well-versed in the art of mouth-on-mouth stimulation. We are teeth and lips and tongues; moaning and hissing; hair-pulling and finger nails digging little half-moons into the skin of the other.
When we get to the apartment Christina is there, which is unfortunate (for her) because nothing is keeping Arizona and I away from each other tonight.
And while I typically value the sensitivity and sensuality of a first time, tonight we are stripping our first time to its bare bones.
That is, my name, being screamed repeatedly until eventually we hear the front door slam signifying Christina's departure.
That is, the bright pink scratch marks that extend from just below Arizona's shoulder blade down to the middle of her back.
That is, saying things to Arizona that might make me cringe in the morning with their vulgarity.
That is, the pure animalistic and uninhibited way in which she fucked me, relentlessly, until I had to bite down on my pillow to stifle my grunting.
By the end (and the end doesn't come for hours), we are both panting and sweating, our bodies slick and slippery.
We are sitting up against the headboard, trying to catch our breaths.
"Fuck," I say, wiping the matted hair away from my forehead.
"Yeah," she says, dreamily and entirely spent.
"I've never… I mean it's never, been like that before."
"I could get addicted to that."
And for a while, we do get addicted to it.