32. Arden
32
ARDEN
My nerves skyrocket, but they’re not only nerves. They’re fluttering hummingbirds, zinging around inside me. They’re desire, my desire to catch a fish rather than paint a fish.
I want the experience, all of it.
You can do this , I tell myself.
Then out loud, “I can do this.”
With my head high, I walk to the door in my heels, a sway to my hips, feeling confident, feeling sexy.
I peer through the peephole, and my world goes whoosh.
I ache as I look at him.
He wears well-worn jeans and a light-blue shirt that shows off his strong biceps and ropy forearms. He’s holding a bottle of sparkling white wine.
It goes well with a striptease, I told him the other night.
Through the peephole, I study him, and the tingles spread down my bare arms, because he looks like he wants to be here.
Only here.
Nowhere else.
There are no nerves in him, just some kind of wild hope, and I can feel that hope centered on me. At this moment, I know . He wants me the same way I want him.
Like we both wanted each other in the elevator.
What comes next?
I’m not sure of the answer.
But I’m sure of this new truth—that ache I feel isn’t only sexual. It’s a pull and a tug from deep inside me. Because of who he is, what he’s been to me, what we’ve done. Not only for the last several days, but the last year. I long for him in so many ways, and I hardly know what to do with this explosion of awareness, with this burst of feelings for him. Wildly intense feelings that make me want so much more than a striptease.
I do what I can do.
The practical.
I can open the door.
I reach for the knob and turn it. It creaks, and here goes nothing. I open the door all the way, as ready as I’ll ever be for the rest of the night to unfold, starting with my fantasy turned reality.
I glide one arm up the doorjamb so my hip juts out, and I give him my best seductive housewife pout. “Hey there. Dinner is on the table.”
He blinks and slides a hand across his stubbled jaw, as a strangled moan of appreciation slides past his lips.
His lips part, but he appears thoroughly incapable of words as his eyes travel up and down my body. Up and down, then back again, his gaze heating me up, sizzling my skin. After a few more tours of duty, he stops at my face, his baby blues shimmering with desire. “I’m ready for dinner. And for dessert.”
His words come out hot and heavy, and the weight of them makes my pulse soar.
I gesture to my outfit. “I guess this meets your approval.”
“This meets every seal of approval in the world.”
I’ve never heard his voice sound so husky. The rasp in it feeds me. It moves through me, giving me another dose of confidence, another serving of naughtiness.
I bring my hand to my mouth, an exaggerated Betty Boop move. “Oh no! You were expecting me in an apron. Oops!” I raise a finger, the sign to wait. “I’ll be right back.”
I turn on my heels, giving him a view of my barely-covered derriere as I saunter back to my bedroom.