“Sure.” He follows me into the kitchen. “To answer your question, I’m not expecting sex tonight. But I’m not gonna lie. I’m crazy attracted to you.”
With my head in the fridge, I glance over my shoulder and catch his eyes on my ass a half second before he looks away. It doesn’t bother me. I work hard to keep my body fit, and it feels nice to be appreciated.
I hand him a Bud Light and open one for myself. “There’s a cozy place to sit out back. Beer and conversation without the noise. I can order pizza. No promise of sex. Sound good?”
“Perfect.”
Grabbing my phone, I lead him through the narrow walkway between the parallel kitchen counters and head toward the door at the other end.
“Love the style in here.” He taps his fingers on the green stove top and turns in a circle to take in the matching retro green cabinets, green tiles, and yellow-flowered wallpaper.
Five years ago, I bought the house from an old lady who hadn’t updated since the seventies. Room by room, I slowly remodeled but ran out of money to tackle the kitchen and bathroom. The vintage green in both rooms has grown on me.
“I like it, too.” I hold the door for him and step into the addition on the back of the house.
Once upon a time, this was my favorite room. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors, wall-mounted ballet bars, and varnished wood flooring were installed during the happiest year of my life, every screw and bracket set by the strongest, most loving hands I’ve ever known.
Mark chugs a gulp of beer and looks around. “So this is where the magic happens?”
A lot of magic happened in here, but that was before my entire world was ripped away. “I run a dance company out of this room.”
Cole made love to me tenderly, viciously, panting and grinding against every inch of this space. Now, the creaks in the floor, scratches in the wood, the shattered hole in one of the mirrors, every echo and dust mote is a painful memory scraping at the wound inside me. On the worst days, it’s impossible to walk in here without doubling over with grief. Tonight, I just feel…lost.
“No way.” Mark’s attention zeroes in on the pole at the edge of the room. “You have to dance for me.”
“I’d rather not.” I haven’t touched that pole in three years.
“Please?” His smirk twists with dirty ideas as his tongue slips out to wet his bottom lip.
“You know I’m not a stripper, right?”
“Your profile says you’re a dance instructor, but it doesn’t say what kind of dancing.” He meanders toward the pole and gives it a shake, testing its sturdiness. “This is a stripper pole.”
“Hate to ruin your fantasy, but I teach ballroom, jazz, ballet, and cardio dancing.”
I also belly dance twice a week at Bissara, a local Moroccan restaurant. But I won’t tell Mark that and give him a reason to start eating pastilla on weekend nights. Especially since I don’t know how this date will end.
“My classes require clothing.” I turn toward the nearest mirror and scrutinize my posture. Even when I’m not dancing, I’m conscious of proper poise and body alignment. A compulsion every dancer has. “The pole is for muscle toning.”
Not a lie, but not the full truth. I have a stripper pole in my house because Cole was a pervert in the best way possible.
An unwelcome ache trembles inside me.
“This way.” I open the back door and step onto the blacktop driveway that runs along the side of my house.
Mark joins me outside and nods at the yellow convertible MG Midget parked a few feet away. “What year is that?”
“1974.” I gather my hair against the soft breeze, relishing the warmth in the late-spring air. “It’s almost nice enough to take the top down.”
Driving with the wind on my face never grows old. I love it almost as much as riding on the back of a motorcycle.
He strolls along the winding brick pathway to the cushioned wrought-iron furniture. A massive hundred-year-old oak tree stands at the center of the small yard, mantling the sitting area with thick branches of foliage.
“How long have you owned it?” His gaze roams over the car as he reclines on the loveseat. “It’s in great condition.”
“I bought it my last year at Washington University.” I lower beside him, cradling the beer in my hands and battling the anxiety in my belly.
“You went to WashU?”
“Yeah. Four-year dance degree. I was twenty-two when I bought the Midget. So I’ve had it…six years. I’ve replaced almost everything on it just to keep it running. The Midwest winters eat away the undercarriage, but I can’t bring myself to sell it.”
I can’t afford a new car. Not that I care. The Midget gets me where I need to go, so it’s all good.
“Have you always lived in St. Louis?” he asks.
“Yep. My sister lives with her husband and daughter ten minutes away. My parents moved to Florida a few years back. You?”
“Born and raised here. Lots of family scattered around town.”
We fall into friendly conversation, order pizza, and finish off several more beers. I lose track of how much I drink, but I know I exceed my limit when my nerves and inhibitions give way to heavy limbs and flushed skin. He’s easy to talk to, has an attractive smile, and the beer tastes better than it has in a long time.
Over the course of the next hour, he inches closer and closer. So close his thigh presses warm and hard against mine.
“Is that patchouli?” His nose brushes the juncture between my neck and shoulder.
“Nag Champa.” My head tips back, and goosebumps pebble beneath his breath on my skin.
“You smell so good. Intoxicating.” Long tapered fingers skim over my collarbone. “So sweet and sexy.” He touches the hollow of my throat. “Incredibly beautiful.” His other arm slides along the back of the loveseat, hooking around my shoulders. “I want to kiss you.”
In the cloak of night, lulled by the hum of singing insects and the numbing effects of alcohol, I want that, too.
Turning my head, I pause with my mouth a hairbreadth from his, but I don’t have the courage to close the gap. It’s so dark his face is a nondescript shadow. He could be anyone.
He could be Cole, if only for a fleeting kiss.
I part my mouth, breaths quickening, and he dives in. A touch of lips. A hand in my hair. Fingers curling around my neck. I hold still, eyes closed, and imagine tattooed muscles and a dangerous smile.
Mark pulls in a shaky breath and traces his tongue along the inside of my bottom lip. A tiptoeing touch, hesitant and inquiring. Nothing like Cole.
“You can kiss me harder,” I whisper. “Deeper.”
He presses closer, bending over me and slanting his head to lick inside my mouth. Rolling my tongue with his, I try to surrender beneath the invasion, but the mechanics feel wrong, like I’m leading instead of following, straining instead of letting go. He doesn’t taste right. His lips are too malleable and thin. His jaw is too pointy, and his shoulders feel bony beneath my hands.