Chapter 1 #2
There’s an undeniable ruggedness about him, the kind you can’t fake, marked by faint creases at the corners of his eyes.
Stormy blue, or maybe grey, depending on the light, his stare holds both curiosity and intensity.
Arched brows add to his rough, effortless charm, perfectly matched by a salt-and-pepper beard framing a jawline sharp enough to cut through tension…
and perhaps my panties. I’d let him rip them right off me.
He could do very bad things to me. I can't help but wonder how his head would feel between my thighs. God, I'm being such a dirty girl tonight.
Blame it on the alcohol.
But I can’t stop my overexcited imagination from toying with me.
I imagine what his hands could do. His calloused, capable hands that know how to work. He’s fiercely handsome, the type that could make you forget your name in the middle of an introduction.
But beg you to scream it during sex!
Oh my God, now is not the time or the place. Calm yourself down, Shannon.
He can’t be my blind date.
Men that look like him are never single.
And if, by some stroke of luck, he is, I doubt he’s the type to stick around until morning.
My mum always said, “Never judge a book by its cover.” But this cover is far too pretty not to catch my eye, or that of another woman.
I could be wrong, though, maybe he’s already been snapped up by the love of his life.
Here I am, twenty-four and single, still living at home with my parents.
My only sexual pleasures lie lifeless in a box, hidden away in my wardrobe.
Because yeah.
I’m not exactly going to pull it out while I still live under the same roof as my parents.
Glancing back at Henri, I wonder if he thinks this man could be my date, when, out of the corner of my eye, Navy Coat Guy slips off his coat.
My head turns instinctively towards him, my eyes tracing the cords of his long fingers as he folds it over his arm, revealing full tattooed arms and hands beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his grey shirt.
Wait, grey shirt?
Bloody hell.
That can’t be him… can it?
Fuck my life, this bloke is a hands-free orgasm.
I shift in my seat, sitting up straighter, hoping he’ll notice me.
When he finally turns and looks my way, our eyes meet and the corners of his lips curve into a smile, warm and easy.
Bloody hell, it’s…him. My mouth is dry, the rest of me is anything but.
Turning to Henri, a smug look spreads across my face.
“My guest has arrived. Could we wait for him to join us?” There’s a subtle defiance in my tone… a silent “screw you” to Henri, who’d clearly assumed I’d been stood up.
Yeah, fuck you, Henri!
Trying not to make a complete fool of myself, I raise my wine glass, gesturing to him to join me.
He looks up, a satisfied smirk tugs at his mouth, before weaving between the tables, heading straight for me, each step deliberate, like a lion surveying the perimeter of his jungle.
I imagine he’d be the kind to clear a pathway full of people.
My throat tightens when he stops at the table, looking even more predatory and handsome up close.
I really want him to roar.
“Hi,” I whisper, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks. He smiles… a damn good smile, flashing me a perfect set of teeth. His strong, slightly crooked nose adds to the edginess of him.
“Hello.” The gravel in his voice turns my insides into a delicious ache that spreads down between my thighs.
I mentally thank Talia for convincing me to come on this date…
praying we hit it off. My God, he’s tall, his body looms over me, and shit, he’s built like a rugby player.
I want to say prop, but he’s too lean, so maybe he’s a fullback.
I’m a curvy woman; he was probably expecting someone with less arse and tits.
I’m aware I’m overthinking, internally picking myself apart; it drives Talia mad when I do this.
I'm not what society likes to call slim. I’ve got curves, hips I have to wiggle to pull on a pair of shorts.
I’m not ashamed of my body and let’s be real here, not every man can handle all this.
Something tells me my blind dates hands wouldn’t have a problem handling my hips and thighs… and my arse.
He must notice the look on my face as he drapes his jacket over the back of his chair and sits across from me. It’s not awkward, but it does feel a bit odd with Henri hovering over us.
“Good evening, Sir, can I get you a drink from the bar while you look at the menu?” Henri’s polite way of saying, ‘Hurry the hell up. Feed this woman and leave.”
“I’ll have a pint of Caffrey’s, please.” God, I could listen to him talk all night.
Henri takes his drink order, leaving us to navigate the conversation, which I hope doesn’t drift off into awkwardness. Now he’s here, I’m not even pissed off he’s late, or the fact he hasn’t apologised. Maybe I got the time wrong.
“Shit, I’m sorry, would you like a drink?” he offers, his cheeks slightly flushed, the same shade colouring the tips of his ears. I raise my glass in his direction, showing it’s still half full. “It’s fine, thank you though,” I manage to say, though my voice barely rises above a squeak.
What the heck was that? Today, you’re a confident woman, act like it.
“I hope this place is okay for you. I thought it’d be better if we met somewhere close to where we both live,” I say, raising my wine glass to my lips.
He clears his throat. “I’ve been here a few times,” he says, pulling his chair closer to the table.
So, I’m not the first blind date… figures.
“Ah, so you’re a serial blind dater?” I playfully tease, trying to keep my nerves at bay, because he seems almost too good to be true.
He snickers. “Erm, no! I’ve just been here before.
” I watch the way his fingers adjust his cutlery.
He has hard-working hands, strong and built for action.
Knuckles lightly grazed with tiny faint scars hidden beneath dark grey rose tattoos.
I can almost feel the scrape of his calloused fingers against my skin.
“Forgive me, I’m rubbish with names,” he says, leaning in to rest his elbows on the table with his fingers steepled together.
“This is a first for me.” He looks around the restaurant, then back at me.
“Blind dates,” he murmurs. Is he nervous?
“It’s Shannon, but my friends call me Shan,” I say, biting my lip as heat creeps up my cheeks.
“Shannon—pretty name.” His voice drops to a low murmur, sending my pulse thrumming in my throat. He’s flirting with me, or at least trying to. A pretty sure sign he’s into me.
“Wesley fits you. Sounds like trouble. Maybe I should call you Wes?” My imagination is working overtime, saying his name over in my head, testing out which version would sound better if he were fucking me.
Jesus, Shannon. Stop with the thoughts.
I shift awkwardly in my seat, trying to pull myself together.
“I’d prefer you to call me Wesley.” I detect a slight dominance in his tone—a man who knows what he likes.
The look in his eyes has me feeling like an ice cream on a hot day, melting under his intense stare. It’s impossible to look away, even as my composure slips, inch by inch.
“Shannon,” he breathes out, testing how it rolls off his tongue. My name has never sounded so good. If we don’t have a second date, at least I’ll have the memory of how he left me squirming in my seat. Talia is going to love this.
Jesus, my nerves are all over the place. What’s wrong with me? I’m usually so confident.
“Are you alright, Shannon?” I would be if he stopped looking at me with those fuck me eyes.
“I’m fine.” I’m lying through my teeth. If I want this date to actually lead somewhere, I need to start being honest with him. Perhaps holding back the fact my panties feel distinctly less dry ever since he walked through the door and purred my name.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m not going to lie, but I’m so nervous,” I say. He tilts his head to the side.
“I wasn’t expecting…” Before I can finish, he jumps in.
“You weren’t expecting what, Shannon?” He’s fucking with me? Does he have to keep saying my name like he’s trying me out for size? The tables have definitely turned. He’s using my nervousness to cover his own. I see you, Wesley.
“You,” I say, circling my hand in front of his face. Does this man not have a mirror?
The corner of his mouth lifts into a slight curve. He’s doing it again.
“There’s no need to be nervous.” His voice turns into a low, husky whisper as his eyes stay focused on mine.
He’s so unfazed, yet every nerve ending in my body clings to the very edge.
This man has a dominant aura about him; his sharp, controlled presence makes me feel more out of my depth than I’ve ever felt before.
I’m trying to keep my composure by focusing on his beautiful smile, unsure whether it’s fear or just me feeling overwhelmed by how intense he is.
Even if this goes no further than dinner, I doubt I’ll forget him in a hurry.
Henri delivers his pint. I want to praise him for the first time on a job well done for interrupting. Wesley tips his pint to his full lips, and I can't stop watching the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows down a sizable amount... I can't look away.
Get your shit together, Shannon. You’re making this weird.
He sets his pint back on the table, inching forward, propping his elbows up on the edge. Those thick, corded fingers are laced together in a tight ball. I’m slightly worried about what’s going to come out of his mouth.
“What made you think meeting a stranger on a Friday night was a good idea?” But I wasn’t expecting him to say that. I choke back my wine. Isn’t it obvious? To meet someone, but I sense there’s more to his question.
“Care to elaborate?” He shifts in his seat, ready to explain in more detail.
“It didn’t look like you wanted to be here,” he says, leaning back, clicking his tongue. “You seem bored.” My eyes widen as he continues to read me like a book.
Who is this man? What planet did he come from?
He gestures between the two of us. “Or were you hoping this leads to something more…” He leans in, a little closer, and whatever awkwardness he had before? Gone without a trace. This man is on the ball, like the one sip of his pint magically turned him into Mr Confident.
“Tell me what you’re expecting to get out of this, Shannon?” Is this a test?
The smug bastard doesn’t just say my name—he practically breathes it.
Honestly, at this point, he already has my body twisted into overdrive.
Every dirty little thought swirling around in my head, mixing with the cheap red wine.
For a second, I think I would take anything this man has to offer me, even if it’s just sex.
Maybe I don’t want to sit through another painful dinner, only to argue over who pays what at the end of the night or suffer through the awkward questions of whether we’ll call each other again.
Would I let this man walk me right out of this restaurant and straight into his bed?
“Yes,” I say, not realising I’d said it out loud to a question he didn’t even ask me.
“Yes, what?” His voice drops into a deep, almost guttural tone, sending goosebumps skittering across my skin.
“Yes, I’m bored, and yes, I want to… go back to your place,” I say, swallowing hard around those words that could end this date before it even truly started.
He leans back in his chair, the table shifting from the lack of his weight, and he drags his teeth over his full bottom lip.
He’s about to say something—I can see his lips moving but my attention catches a tall blonde standing behind him leaning against the bar wearing a figure-hugging dress.
She looks hesitant and slightly confused.
Without a word, she raises her left hand showing me the back of it, and her wedding finger wrapped in a white gold band of commitment.
My stomach coils as I look back at Wesley, the betrayal clear on my face as he turns to follow my eyeline just as I see the woman mouth the words, “He’s married! ”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I don’t bother keeping my voice low, might as well put on a show for the rest of the diners.
His hands fly up in front of him, fingers spread as he waves his palms in a frantic display of guilt. “It’s not what you think.” As if no woman has ever heard those words before. Shoving my chair back, I stand, planting my palms flat on the table. Wesley doesn’t move, just shakes his head.
Fuelled by wine, anger or shock, it happens so fast. “You’re nothing but a cheating bastard,” I snarl, leaning forward into his space.
He’s trying to talk over me, but I can’t hear anything under my barrage of insults.
My hand grips the stem of my half-filled wine glass and with a quick flick of my wrist, the contents of my cheap red wine are now hurled over this idiot’s head, leaving a decorative stain on his shitty shirt.
“Tosser.” I slam the glass down and storm out of the restaurant, swearing never to go on a blind date again.