Chapter 9 Madison #2
They seat us in a cozy back corner at a four-person table so we can sit on adjacent sides with the corner between us. He pulls out my chair for me, then shucks off his leather jacket and drapes it on the back of his. Damn. I wish those long sleeves didn’t cover so much.
Like he can sense my disappointment, he starts rolling them up—my own personal forearm burlesque show—and my mouth goes dry, watching more and more colorful, inked flesh being exposed. I’m still staring when he takes his seat, and he gives me a cheeky wink.
Busted.
Wishing I’d remembered to ask for a booth, I shift in my chair.
When my legs don’t touch the floor, I prefer to sit crisscross, and there’s usually only enough room for it in a booth.
Noticing my discomfort, Peter offers to ask for a different table.
With a sheepish smile, I let him ask our waiter to move us.
Is this what it feels like to swoon?
Settled at a new table, we chat about the decor of the restaurant until our waiter shows up to take our order, saving the deeper topics for when we won’t be interrupted. Once we’ve got our drinks—a beer for Peter, a marg for me—we jump into it.
“So, tell me about yourself. What do you do?” he asks.
“Little of this, little of that,” I say dismissively, spinning my drink against the table—a fidget to release some anxiety. “What do you do?”
“Erm,” he says, an odd smile on his lips at my refusal to answer. “I work for a cable company—installations, repairs, maintenance.”
That sort of explains the physique. I’ve watched those guys carry spools of wire over their shoulders that I know weigh close to 100 lbs. “Sounds like you’re good with your hands,” I flirt.
“Very,” he flirts back.
“And you like it?”
“It’s a decent job—leaves me plenty of time for hobbies.”
“Hiking? Baking? Candlestick making?”
He chuckles and sits back in his seat. “Tinkering with electronics, mostly. I’ve always been curious about how things work.
When I was a boy, my father encouraged me to take things apart so I could teach myself and understand.
Didn’t tell my mother, though—she pitched a fit when she came home and her washing machine was in pieces on the laundry room floor. ”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Did you put it back together at least?”
His grimace is conspiratorial, making me feel like I’m in on the joke. “In my defense, there were way more parts than I remembered taking out. I’m convinced my father slipped a few extra bolts in there when I wasn’t looking, just to fuck with me.”
I release the chuckle, relishing in the feeling of unexpectedly sharing a sense of humor with someone new. “So you were a bit of a troublemaker.”
“Incorrigibly. Still am,” he winks. Okay, this is what it feels like to swoon. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’m definitely a troublemaker. Some of my friends would call me more of a menace, though.”
His smile is amused, but almost distracted, like I said something that reminded him of something else. “I meant, what do you do in your spare time?”
“You’ll never believe this, but I actually take apart people’s washing machines and don’t put them back together.”
His eyes flash, as if his amusement is tinged with something else. Desire, maybe? Does a bit of witty banter rile him up? I fucking hope so, because there’s plenty more where that came from.
“What a coincidence,” he muses. When he leans forward to grab his beer bottle, his shirt strains against his pecs, and I have to force myself not to stare. “Are you from around here?”
I snort. “Like that’s even remotely as interesting as your back story—I’m not the one with the British accent, here.
What’s the leap from England to New Jersey all about?
” I ask, genuinely curious. His background check gave me some insight, but dates and numbers only tell facts, not a story.
According to immigration, he’s been in the country for a few years.
After a long sip, he sets the bottle back down and regards me curiously. “That’s the third personal question you’ve dodged,” he observes.
I reach for my own drink to hide my shock.
The guy from my last first date didn’t ask me a single question—it made for a boring meal, but I didn’t really mind since I don’t usually share personal details anyway.
It also led to an unsurprisingly selfish sexual encounter that left me so thoroughly unsatisfied that I remember thinking I didn’t need a real man in my life as long as I had SpyderMan.
And here Peter is, not only asking questions but noticing my lack of answers? Like he genuinely cares and wants to know stuff about me? And that’s amazing?
Jesus. The bar really is so low for men it’s in hell.
“You do realize the point of a date is to get to know each other?” he continues lightly, eyebrows lifting.
Well, I’ve been thoroughly called out. “Sorry,” I wince. “I’m rusty, I guess. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out on a date.”
“Really?”
The surprise in his tone is so genuine that it’s flattering. And here I was, assuming that admitting I don’t get out much makes me sound like a loser. Clearly he doesn’t think I am. “Yeah… I guess I’ve been a little hung up on someone else.”
A lot of guys would hear that and bristle at the idea of competition. Not Peter. Peter smiles gently, like he understands. “Well, I’m glad you’re here with me.”
I smile back, feeling warmth settle around my heart.
“Me too.” It’s a nice moment, but it feels a little heavy, so I break it by quipping, “You know, I was a little nervous about this date, but I think you might be kind of a closet nerd, Mr. Motorcycle. I feel like you’re the kind of guy who had a phase where you wore fedoras with sincerity. ”
He wants to laugh. So bad. I can see it in the sudden twinkle in his eye as he rubs his lower lip. Between the size, strength, and tattoos covering the back of those hands… the sight sends a sharp pang of need straight through my core. Dios, they’d look good around my neck.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, love. I’ve never done anything with sincerity.”
I grin. Yup. Confirmed. Similar senses of humor. And “love”? I’m definitely a goner.
Our food comes, then, and our flirting is momentarily derailed by how amazing it all looks and smells. I load my tacos up with the spiciest sauce on the table, and Peter reaches for it to do the same.
“I would stick to the green one,” I advise. At his questioning look, I smirk. “No offense, but you look like regular black pepper might take you out.”
He throws his head back and laughs, and I’m treated to the sight of his throat bobbing. “I know British food isn’t notorious for its use of spices—which I’ve always found odd, considering the fact that my forefathers colonized the world for them—”
“You said it, not me, 50 Shades of Beige,” I cut in, grinning.
“—but don’t worry about me, love. I’m made of sturdy stuff.” He thumps his chest twice with his hand.
He makes his point by reaching for the sauces and using the little spoon to pour some of the red one directly on his finger.
He sticks it in his mouth, maintaining a teasing kind of confrontational eye contact, but the cocky expression slowly melts into alarm as the heat hits his tongue and coats the inside of his mouth.
“Your ears are turning red, Peter.” I wave my pointer finger in his general direction. “And I think I see a little steam coming out of them.”
He makes a pained grunt and reaches for his water.
I tuck my lips against each other so I don’t laugh at his pain and push his beer closer to him with my fingertips. “Drink this—water will make it worse.”
The look he shoots me is full of gratitude and a refreshing lack of ego.
After he quenches the fire in his mouth, we settle into the easiest back-and-forth conversation I can remember having in person…
ever. We mostly end up exchanging stories from our childhoods, a perfectly safe topic.
Some of his stories even remind me of things SpyderMan has told me, making me wonder if it’s a universal boy experience to try to ride a bike with no hands and crash into a pond.
An hour goes by in the blink of an eye. Peter is… kind of perfect.
He’s polite to waiters and strangers. He eats neatly.
He listens intently when I speak and doesn’t just wait for his turn to talk.
He notices when I get cold from a draft and offers me his jacket.
He’s funny and smart. He waves off my offer to split the check.
He laughs at my jokes and never gets offended by my personal brand of mocking, sarcastic flirting.
So when we step out into the night and pause on the sidewalk in a silent precursor to that moment where we both awkwardly prod to see how much further the other person wants to take this, I don’t even hesitate. I don’t want to just break the touch-barrier, I’m gonna barrel right through it.
I grab the back of his neck and pull him down to me.
The kiss starts gentle and slow—a thank you, a question, a suggestion.
His lips are soft against mine, though there’s a rough patch of stubble under his bottom lip that drags sinfully against my delicate skin.
He tastes a little spicy from our meal. I don’t know if that’s what gets me going, or if it’s a reminder of just how amazing that date was, but it lights a spark in me.
I step into him, opening for the kiss and stretching my body so I can wrap my arms around his neck, and his response is instant.
Fusing his mouth to mine, his body curls around me as he finds my waist and grips me hard enough to send a little zing to my pussy at the force.
His body is so firm and warm through his shirt.
I hug him tighter so the world doesn’t slip away around me, and one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of my head, threading into my hair.
I gasp into his mouth at the slight tug—the smallest show of force, driven by a desire too desperate to be polite.
I suddenly want to tear his clothes off with my teeth like some kind of animal.
Someone wolf whistles, reminding us we’re out in public. We pull apart, but we’re still both so locked in that neither of us bothers to look for the catcaller.
“Whoa,” I breathe, panting a little.
His eyes are wide, too. In the dim light of the streetlamps, his pupils have almost taken over the green-gray of his irises. “Whoa,” he agrees.
Swallowing, he releases my hips. I unwind my arms from around his body, shivering a little when the slow drop from my tiptoes drags our bodies against each other for a few painfully short inches.
“I’ll walk you back. I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” he swears.
I grin. “Dios, I hope that’s not true,” I say, sliding my hand up his chest because I just can’t seem to help myself.
“How close do you live?” he rasps.
The urgency in his demand makes my nipples prickle. So close. A bed is only a few blocks away if we can make it that far. Though if we can’t, I won’t be too mad. I’ve never fucked in an alley…
I’m so turned on and ready to go, I can barely believe it when what comes out of my mouth is, “Too close for a first date.”
It’s not that I’m a prude—fucking obviously—or that I think dating ought to be some kind of game where the woman withholds sex.
Honestly, I’m not sure what’s holding me back—maybe that he’s almost too perfect.
Maybe that I actually want to know him better and I’m afraid that having sex might change that somehow…
This is new territory. I wasn’t expecting to like him so much.
I start to pull away. He groans in sexual frustration, covering my hand with his much larger, warmer one and stilling my retreat.
“Fuck. I…” he runs his free hand through his hair, disheveling it.
“Christ, all I want to do is try to convince you to change your mind, but that makes me feel like a tosser. All right. You said no. I can respect that. Just…”
I don’t even have time to be completely fucking charmed by that because, in a blink, he sweeps me back into his arms. This time, he holds my face.
I love how delicate it makes me feel, and how warm his palm is against my skin.
It’s like being cradled, especially when the side of his thumb caresses softly over my cheekbone.
He holds me still and brushes his lips so gently across mine that I try to lean in. I moan softly when I can’t.
He pulls back, staring down at me intensely. My need is a hollow ache, and he’s right here offering to fill it. What kind of stupid idiot turns down an offer like that? I’m kicking myself.
“Text me?” I ask, sounding just as bereft and eager as I feel.
He laughs. “I’ll text you.”