Chapter eleven Kendra
Chapter eleven
Kendra
What am I doing?
I look at myself in the mirror and notice a faint sheen of perspiration on my upper lip. Shit. I grab some loose powder and a blending brush to cover the evidence of my nerves.
That’s right; I’m nervous. Me! Who has to lock down my DMs every few weeks because of too many dick pics. Who divorced one of the most sought-after men in America!
I came to that Fourth of July party all big and bad.
Acting like I was going to eat him up! when we got back to my place.
And now, at my big age of thirty-whatever, I’m nervous about a first date with a guy who froze when he first saw me.
A guy who was clearly starstruck, but in a cute way. A guy who essentially stalked me.
I shake my head at myself in the mirror and check my eyeliner for smudges.
He didn’t essentially stalk me. He actually stalked me.
Every time I turned around, he was there, and yet, I never felt threatened.
If I’d really had a problem with it, I could’ve told him to stop, and he probably would have.
I could’ve had Denise sic her boyfriend on him if I needed to.
But I didn’t need to. What I needed was to end this dry spell of almost a year and get back on the proverbial horse. Or the literal dick. He’s so big and tall and strong…I bet he’s seriously packing. And those tattoos?!
I blow out a breath, then finger-comb my bangs back into place.
Those tattoos have been teasing me since the moment I saw him, and I finally have the chance to unwrap him and look my fill.
Maybe I’ll catalog them all with my tongue, bite him a little.
I’m sure that’ll get him worked up. Hopefully, it’ll get me worked up enough to shave a few minutes off my prep time.
I wipe my palms on my silk skirt and sigh again. Ugh, I’m fucking nervous!
He finds me attractive. Our chemistry is off the charts. He’s already said he wants to come home with me. But is he gonna freak when he finds out I need more than most women to have a good time? Will I ultimately have to fake it to preserve his ego?
I certainly did with Andre. Andre would give me a kiss on the neck, slip a finger in my panties, and, wet or not, he’d stick it in right after. Occasionally, he’d eat me out with the enthusiasm you’d expect someone to have while waiting in line at the post office. Near the end, at least.
In the beginning, he was hungry for me all the time. Ravenous. Kissing down my body, tweaking and sucking my nipples, even fingering my ass without me having to tell him. No inch of my body went unexplored.
But when I got back from the Viega job, everything was different. I didn’t want him to touch me, let alone fuck me. He did not take it well. He acted like I was rejecting him, like my way of recovering, of dealing with the trauma, was something I was doing to him.
When I eventually did feel desire again, it was like a switch had been flipped.
He barely came on to me. There was no passion.
I think he was still hurting from when I pushed him away, but dammit, I just couldn’t go there.
Not yet. Not after what happened. It took months before he could touch me without seeing him, and by then, trying to get past my “hangups”, as he called them, was a chore he preferred to skip.
I’m not up for all that work tonight, he’d say.
You’re not even trying to get there. But I was fucking trying!
He was the one who’d given up. Thinking back, that’s probably when the cheating started.
He got tired of “putting in work”, so he asked the nearest groupie, opening act, or background singer to pick up the slack, smiling for the cameras the entire time.
I suck my teeth and dab at the slightly moist corners of my eyes. Get it together, Kendra. You are fine, you are fierce, and tonight, Damon’s going to fuck the shit out of you!
I check my lipstick one last time, grab my clutch, and head downstairs to meet Niko.
I see Damon walk up to the restaurant at the same time my driver rolls to a stop.
He hasn’t noticed me, and I take a moment to admire him through the tinted windows.
He’s in dark-wash jeans again, this time in a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.
His tats peek out enough to titillate, the bad boy quality they give him in stark contrast to Andre’s wholesome appeal.
I snort. He was only ever wholesome on paper.
I finish my leisurely perusal at Damon’s feet and grin.
“We have got to get you in some dress shoes, Damon!” I call out as I open my door.
He whirls around to face me, startled, then offers his hand before Niko can reach me.
I take it, reveling in how warm, strong, and big it is, and I don’t miss the approving nod Niko gives before walking back to his side of the car.
Damon’s a gentleman; he’s already getting bonus points and we’re not even in the restaurant.
“Seriously,” I say once I’m steady and my heels aren’t stuck between the cobblestones of the sidewalk. “Cole Haan. Banana Republic. Something.”
He looks chagrined as he guides us through the doors of the restaurant in Little Italy.
“Two for Park,” he tells the host, who has to crane his neck to meet Damon’s eyes.
We follow our waiter, weaving through small tables with white tablecloths and pink flowers, to the booths along the sides of the room. The restaurant is dim, lit only by candlelight, and the delicious smell of garlic and roasted tomatoes makes my mouth water.
Damon steps aside for me to enter the booth first—more bonus points!—then squeezes in after me, scooting over until our shoulders touch.
“May I interest you both in a bottle of the Chianti Classico?” the waiter asks. “It pairs beautifully with just about everything on the menu.”
Damon raises an eyebrow in question, deferring to me. I nod, and the waiter disappears after leaving the menus.
Andre never liked it when I took the lead in public.
He loved that I was beautiful, that men wanted what he had.
He even liked that I was successful in my own right.
Whenever we were out together, though, he had to be the focal point.
It was always R my legs are too long and my feet hit the opposite bench.”
I cover my mouth to keep my laugh in, but he nudges me.
“You can laugh. That’s one of the reasons I always wear sneakers. My feet are so big, everything else looks like clown shoes. Half of the major shoe brands don’t even carry my size.”
At six feet tall and over two hundred pounds, I have to deal with both limited sizes and hems that make me look like I’m preparing for a flood.
A skirt that looks fine on most women looks indecent on someone my height.
My feet aren’t small either; I wear a size eleven when most of the cute styles stop at ten.
It’s part of why Denise’s line is so exciting.
It’ll be one more brand providing options to women like me.
Thinking about Damon’s feet, however, has me clenching my thighs together. If his feet are too big for even men’s sizes, I can’t wait to see what that means for my kitty later. I look up to find him smirking at me; my thoughts must have been written all over my face.
“Um,” I clear my throat and gesture toward the menu in his hand.
“Everything looks so good, right? You know, I’ve actually been here once before, but it was a working meeting, so I barely tasted it.
I honestly couldn’t tell you if I had the Osso Buco or a house salad.
I’m leaning towards the chicken piccata tonight, though. What about you?”
He takes a drink from his water glass instead of answering, a gleam in his eye. This is the last time I suggest dinner! The added pressure is obviously getting to me.
I try to settle back into the worn leather seat when he asks,
“How long has it been?”
I blush at his bold question. He wants details before we even order appetizers? I guess that’s the whole reason we’re here, but…
I worry my lip. Fuck it. He already caught me drooling; I may as well come clean.
“Almost a year. That’s why I’m being a little more forward than I normally would. This drought is killing me!”
I flip to the back of the wine list, proactively scanning the dessert wines for something to have with my tiramisu. When he still hasn’t responded to my admission, I hazard a glance, only to find him full-on grinning at me, his menu forgotten. I gasp.
“Oh God! You didn’t mean sex,” I groan into my hands. “Please, God. Kill me now.”
He shakes his head, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“No,” he says in a scolding tone. “You can’t die now. We’ve got to get you laid first.”
I’m still too mortified to speak when the waiter arrives to take our orders. He pours a sip of wine into Damon’s glass, which Damon swirls around like a kid shaking a snow globe before taking an exaggerated slurp. I bite my lip to stifle a giggle.
“This is great,” Damon says with a polite bob of his head, then watches as the waiter fills both our glasses.