He had counted the days till he could see her next.
Their texts had only gotten steamier through the week, though, still, she remained sweet and thoughtful, and always asked how his day had gone. The day before yesterday, they had talked on the phone for an hour before bed. She had just got in from work, a wedding, she said.
She had told him about the flowers, how beautiful they'd been, she had wanted to be a florist when she was little and he'd asked what her favourite were. Tulips, she had said, sleepily. Yesterday, she would have been greeted, as she walked into work, by a bouquet of them in every colour possible.
He drove tonight, to pick her up, testing the speed limit just slightly in his impatience to see her. He had decided on his favourite black jumper and jeans, keeping it casual and wondered what she'd be wearing.
Then wondered what she'd be wearing under what she'd be wearing...
Bloody hell Tom, focus. You'll end up off the road if you're not careful.
She lived in an outer borough of London. She was lucky enough, she'd told him, to be able to afford a place by herself. It was the size of a postage stamp considering how much she paid in rent, but at least she had her privacy.
He pulled up in the quiet street and texted her to say he'd arrived.
He looked around at her neighbourhood.
Short, winding terraces of Victorian town-houses spread out like a spider-web. They'd all been cut into flats, he guessed. She had said hers was the one with the white, wooden window-boxes and he could see it now, light illuminating the pale blue curtains of her home.
Suddenly, the light went out and he caught his breath.
She'd appear at the white door any second and he ached with anticipation.
Then, there she was. Locking the door. A vision in red.
She locked the door and wandered over, the sunset gleaming off her hair.
He had enough time to compose himself and look her over, though not enough to wipe the huge grin from his face.
She had worn her hair down, curling gently against her face.
Her make-up was natural and complimentary.
Her red dress was a thin summer one, cut in a 1940's style and floating to her knees.
Her shoes were modest heels, shiny black with a T-bar fastening.
She looked like a porcelain doll.
He suddenly felt terribly under-dressed.
You stop at the driver's side window and lean down to meet his eye.
"A Jag? I might have known." you say, cheekily, winking.
Before he can get out, to open your door for you, you trot around and let yourself in.
His lips are on you in a second. He's surprisingly forceful, like he absolutely needs you right now or he'll burst.
"You, young lady," he smiles into your mouth, "have had me in pieces all week."
"Well, you haven't exactly helped matters. You wouldn't get out of my mind. I say this is all your fault." you counter, running your hands through his hair as you kiss him back.
Finally, you part and he fires the car into life.
"Hungry?" he asks.
You bite your lip at the lascivious thoughts that that one word provokes.
"Ravenous. Do I get to know what's on the menu in advance?"
"All I will say is, I hope you like pasta!" he laughs, pulling out into the traffic of the main road.
You make small talk while you travel, all the while drinking him in, staggered by the unbelievable fact that, this man, this man, of all people is interested in you.
He looks delicious tonight. All in black, so comfortable and easy that you feel awkward and over-dressed. You watch him drive, like it's second nature to him, his forearms flexing as he changes gear in a way that makes your stomach tighten with sheer want.
You pull up in a beautiful, tree lined avenue not far from the park and, before you can stop him, Tom is out of the car and at your door, kissing you on the forehead as you rise from your seat.
You chat lightly as you enter his apartment and he tells you to make yourself at home while he gets you both a drink.
The place is beautiful. Understated elegance in muted colours, the living room is about the size of your entire flat. You are drawn, immediately, to his bookshelves, which line one side of the room.
Engrossed in the wonderful titles there, you only just register the soft jazz start up in the kitchen and the clatter of pots and pans. Tom, Chef at work.
You are just rising up on your tiptoes to see the higher shelf as he returns, glass of red wine in hand.
Of course, she'd gravitate toward the books.
He smiled, softly, at the girl before him, trailing her slender fingers along the spines of the books and balancing on her toes in her curiosity.
She bounced back to her feet and took the glass, thanking him.
"You look stunning." he breathed, encircling her in his arms, "You make me feel utterly inadequate."
"You have got to be kidding!" she blurted, turning red as he laughed heartily.
"Sorry!" she blushed, "It's just, well, you look just fine to me..."
"Then that is all the reassurance I need." he kissed her gently, quickly as a timer began to blare in the kitchen.
She followed him in and he lifted her, as if she weighed nothing, to perch on the counter-top as he worked. They laughed as he cooked, finding conversation easy and he scolded her playfully when she stole ingredients, popping them into her mouth as covertly as she could. Which was not covertly in the slightest.
They ate by candlelight, of course. He had made a note of her favourite music and had loaded his I-Pod with hours of it. They talked about his favourite roles, her favourite holidays, his love of tennis and her ability to pour champagne one-handed being one of her many talents.
She made him laugh. He made her smile.
All the time, he found himself noticing her little nuances.
The way her mouth curled at the edges into a smile.
The unbelievably sexy way she made him hard, without even realising it, by biting her lip and wrinkling her nose when she was embarrassed.
"That was really wonderful." she hummed in satisfaction as they both flopped down onto the sofa afterwards, "Thank you."
"You're more than welcome. It's a pleasure just to have you here." he murmured, pushing a curl back, behind her ear.
She blushed, so easily, and giggled.
"So... these films you promised..." she continued, following on from a conversation at dinner about their top 'date night' movies.
"Ah yes," he jumped up, rummaging through his extensive DVD collection and bringing back three cases, "These are the perfect, cosy-up-on-the-sofa flicks."
"You like 'Pretty Woman'?!" she giggled cheekily.
"OK, OK! 'The Last of the Mohicans' or 'The English Patient'? Lady's choice." he laughed, holding them both up for her selection.
"'The English Patient', definitely." she smiled.
"Good call." he grinned, loading the player, dimming the lights and sinking down next to her as the film began.