Chapter 20
My date was going to town on a waffle cone.
When I noticed this, two thoughts crossed my mind.
First, demolishing a double scoop of gelato should be an Olympic sport, and second, that tongue had skills.
"Not liking the pistachio?" Rob asked when he took a breath.
His lips were shiny. It reminded me of…mmm. Like I needed that reminder. Every time I was with Rob, my body felt like a harp string pulled too tight.
Just waiting to be plucked.
I hadn't been plucked in ages. And I did mean ages. I barely remembered how a good plucking went but I knew shiny lips usually meant we were off to a good start.
I glanced down at the small dish in my hands.
I hadn't touched it. I tended to do that when Rob was around.
Forget about everything save for the quiver of anticipation conveniently located right between my legs, at least for a few minutes.
"Oh, no. It's fine. I like pistachio. Love pistachio.
It's great. Like, if I had to rank the nuts, I'd put pistachio right up—"
Rob swirled his tongue around the inner edge of the waffle cone while he stared at me, and yeah, yeah this was what it meant for panties to fall right off. For a chick with hips like mine, that was some kind of magic.
"Stop that," I said through a groan. I reached for him, wrapping my fingers around his forearm. "You have no idea what you're doing right now."
I glanced around Hanover Street, expecting to find someone staring at this obscene display of tongue prowess. Perhaps a mother covering her child's eyes or a police officer writing up a ticket for public indecency. The only thing I found was pistachio gelato melting onto my hand.
"No idea?" he repeated with a grin. "That's what you think?"
My eyes widened. This man. Mercy, this man. "Then you're doing this on purpose?"
He speared his tongue into the gelato, scooping up a creamy bit. It was filthy. We'd spent the past two hours together, wandering around the North End and talking about everything and nothing until we decided on dessert.
But now I understood. The jig was up.
To Rob, this was the audition. Not the time we spent talking about our families—my brothers, his sister—our work, our long paths from kids not knowing what to do with ourselves and doddling in and out of college and crummy jobs to mostly successful adults, our enjoyment of campy disaster movies like Volcano and Deep Impact and 2012, our hope the world wasn't driving itself off a cliff and our corresponding inability to watch as we careened toward the edge.
All of that? The warm-up. The gelato was the performance.
He reached for my gelato, freeing it from my hands and setting it on the bench beside him. Then he reached for my hand—the one with melted pistachio dotting the fleshy space between my thumb and forefinger—and brought it to his mouth. Licked. Sucked. Suuuuuucked.
"What—what are you doing?" I stammered. He swept his tongue over my skin, and the fabric formerly known as my panties was gone. Just gone with the wind. "We're on the street. This is a street, Rob. With people. There are people around and you're—you're—what are you even doing?"
"Just a preview, love," he murmured as his teeth scraped over my hand.
I hadn't considered going back to Rob's place when he invited me out for a walk tonight but that was the trouble with these boys. They kept turning simple, innocent moments into situations where my underwear, my inhibitions, and my intentions flew out the window.
Not that I'd taken off my underwear for either of the men in my life right now but I'd thought about it. Oh, yes. I'd thought. Thinking. Lots of thinking. That was exactly it.
But I could barely think of anything aside from the way he teased my hand. Whoa, that was weird. Right? Never had a man sucked on my hand.
"We're not in the right place for a preview, Rob," I said, a gasp slipping through my words.
He laughed, shaking his head as his teeth pressed against my skin again. Damn, that was good. I couldn't explain why but it was good. "That's hardly a problem," he replied. "Grab my phone. Back left pocket."
I didn't move. I couldn't move. Not with his lips on my hand and the promise of something more lingering in the air.
Rob pressed the remains of the waffle cone to my free hand after a minute. "Hold this," he ordered.
Once I had my fingers around his cone—fuck, this was such strange foreplay—he pulled his mobile from his pocket.
I watched while he keyed in the code right in front of me.
He didn't angle the phone away or make any attempt to conceal the numbers.
Then he shot me a see what I did there? smile.
He wanted me to know. This man, the one who melted down at the notion of anything more serious than working off some nasty breakup energy, was offering access to his digital life.
What was happening right now?
"Since we're not in the proper place for this, I'm gonna call my car service," he said. "All right?"
"You have a car service?" I asked, focusing on all the right things. "Not Uber or Lyft but a legit on-demand driver?"
Rob jerked a shoulder up but offered no other response.
He wasn't flashy when it came to money. I liked that about him.
More than that, I liked the maturity and sense of self backing it up.
Just as he'd known who he was when he first approached me with his performance statistics, he made no attempt to argue his worth.
He knew it and he let it speak for itself. That was enough.
"That's convenient," I murmured.
"It is," he replied. "I don't use it too often but when I have somewhere I'd like to be or someone I'd like to be with, they get me there in a hurry. I appreciate that."
Nodding, I asked, "If you call this car service, what happens then?"
"Whatever you want." He shifted, moving his lips from my hand to the crook of my neck.
Yeah, like I needed this to get more intimate.
"No expectations. We can go back to my place and avoid the news if you want.
Watch a movie or just sit outside with some wine.
I'm embarrassed to say there's a real shortage of living things on my terrace.
" When I frowned up at him in confusion, he continued.
"I thought it was better to tell you about it now than conceal the fact. "
"Thankfully, I know someone who can fix that," I said, laughing.
Did I want to go home with Rob? To this point, I hadn't been in a confined space with either of the men on my dance card.
I wasn't counting the time spent at Ben's renovation house.
That was mostly work and the occasional moment pressed against the wall while he kissed me, and it wasn't as though we had any soft surfaces around for it to go much further.
Maybe I was splitting hairs or drawing wobbly lines but that was the beautiful part of making the rules.
If I was content with my decisions, that was the only thing that mattered.
And I was content with Rob in confined spaces.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go to your place."
Rob lived in a new building in the South End, all concrete and exposed ductwork and huge, yawning windows.
The furniture was reliably manly—a leather sectional, a big-ass television, no curtains.
Somehow this wide-open space felt cozy. It probably had something to do with the vintage rug on the floor, the books packed into a set of shelves, the pile of throw pillows discarded under the coffee table.
A wall of floor-to-ceiling glass doors offered a panoramic view of the city, just like the long, skinny photos sold at Quincy Market. But better because the real thing was always better. Those edgeless doors also showed off a terrace with a serious lack of green.
"You weren't joking about the shortage of living things out there," I said, tipping my chin toward the terrace. It was gray. Just…gray. Whoever designed the masculine-but-comfortable interior flaked out on the exterior.
"What's your recommendation?" Rob asked. He was on the other side of the room, plugging in his phone.
"If you want my recommendation, you need to call my office and make an appointment," I said, mostly joking. "My assistant will walk you through my consultation fees. I'll warn you right now, they're high."
"Worth every penny," he replied.
"This really is sad," I said, sweeping my gaze to each end of the terrace.
It was at least thirty feet long, probably ten feet deep.
Completely barren. A concrete wasteland.
"You have the right exposure for some big containers filled with perennials.
Grassy, maybe flowering. Lavender if you can handle the bees.
Just something to keep the local pollinators busy.
Maybe a Japanese maple or a flowering cherry.
Then again, you have space for both. This isn't the right setup for rainwater catchment but we can work out a smart irrigation system, no problem. "
His hands landed on my hips. I liked the feel of him there. Strong, capable, certain. I liked him. I didn't need his hands or his tongue to confirm it.
I smiled up at him. "But only if you want more than sad, empty concrete."
"I moved in not too long ago." He blinked away the teasing fun of this moment, replacing it with a solemn frown.
It lasted no longer than an eyeblink but I saw every cold, bloodless memory of his exes blow through him.
Inside that eyeblink, I felt the sinking devastation of finding yourself a fool.
They'd lived together. They were going to be engaged, married.
And now I was here and his terrace was a wasteland because none of that existed anymore.
He blinked again, forced a laugh, gestured to the living space.
"I'm not home enough to take care of anything. "