Chapter 4
EMILIA
“What the hell?” he says, not enthusiastically. But he’s agreeable nonetheless. “If that’s what you want. Yeah.”
He holds his hand out, gesturing for me to lead the way down to the dance floor.
I reach out and take his hand to pull him along behind me as we venture toward the stairs.
I’m not usually the kind of girl who holds hands with strangers, but I’m also not usually the kind of girl who finds herself in some shiny, noisy, high-end LA nightclub, and holy shit this guy is hot.
I feel his hand, briefly, on the small of my back as we wind through groups of people.
Holy shit that felt good.
Brent never danced with me. Not once. Not even at weddings. That’s going on the list. Fuck you, Brent.
It’s because of him that I’m a tad tipsier than I’d planned on being tonight.
After dinner I got a text asking if I’d made it to LA safely.
Two days after I’d left Paso Robles. Perhaps he was just trying to give me the space I needed, but fuck you, Brent.
I sent him a thumbs-up emoji and then agreed to come to this club with Franklin, despite being vehemently opposed to the idea one minute earlier.
“If they serve alcohol there, then sure,” I’d told him.
I can’t believe I lost Franklin. I mean, it’s only been about twenty minutes I guess, but still.
He kept ordering me J?ger shots as soon as we got here, but as soon as The Guy showed up, I knew I’d have to fend for myself.
He seems to have an unusually massive crush on this one, so I cut him some slack.
They’re probably huddled together in a corner somewhere, critiquing people’s outfits and not wondering where I am. But I can hardly be mad at the asshole.
Because Alejandro.
He is one tall drink of Sangria, and I would eat pray love all over him, all night long.
Wait, what?
I mean, normally I wouldn’t. But maybe New Me will.
Apparently, New Me holds hands with strangers and makes very subtle blow job insinuations.
His hand is warm and protective, even though I reached for him first. He squeezes my hand and pulls in front of me as we walk down the stairs.
I don’t know if he’s being a gentleman or if he’s making sure I don’t tumble down the steps, but I’m grateful.
I am a little woozy. The good kind of woozy.
But woozy. And tingly in places that haven’t felt tingly in a really long time.
From my head down to my toes, but mostly somewhere in between.
Alejandro can’t be more than five years older than me, but he’s a man.
He carries himself like a man. He talks like a man.
He looks to me like a man who’s always either just gotten out of bed or he’s about to take someone to bed with him.
He looks at me like he knows what I look like naked.
Or like he knows exactly what to say or do to get me naked.
And I find myself wanting him to know exactly what I look like naked, which is pretty unusual for me.
But probably not unusual for women who’ve just done four J?germeister shots.
And probably not unusual for any woman on the receiving end of that look.
He leads me to a spot in the center of the dance floor and turns to face me.
A Mark Ronson and Alicia Keys song is playing (yeah, I know who Mark Ronson is—I’m not a hundred).
It’s loud and mid-tempo, and I can feel the bass vibrating on the soles of my feet and in the pit of my stomach and in my marrow.
And my clitoris. My clitoris has felt like the center of the universe for the past ten minutes.
And okay, I guess I understand why people do this. I feel like I’m twenty again.
Alejandro stays about six inches from me.
We easily find the beat of the song and the rhythm of the people around us.
His head is tilted down, his broad shoulders roll forward a bit, and he moves his lower body just enough for it to be considered dancing and I consider it completely sexy.
He starts to mirror my swaying shoulders.
My nipples are so erect right now, I drag my hand across my chest ever so quickly to check to make sure they aren’t poking holes through the fabric.
I didn’t even know they could get this hard.
They’re pointing at this man like Hey you—the idiot we’re attached to—do you even see this guy?
Get closer to him immediately and rub us against him!
I look up to find that his jaw has tightened.
Those big brown eyes of his are even more hooded now.
I take a step closer to him, my hips are coming alive, and I’m close enough to feel the heat coming off of him, or maybe it’s coming off of me and bouncing back off his chest. I wonder if he has a hairy chest. His skin is tanned, the color of honey, and I want to lick him all over.
What?
My hands are up in my hair, and I’m rolling my head around like I’m in a porny shampoo commercial.
And I remember all of a sudden that I’m wearing my glasses.
What kind of a nerd wears glasses while dancing in a nightclub?
Never mind—not going to think about it now.
And I’m definitely not going to think about the fact that I’m not ready to start dating again, because I’m just dancing with a stranger.
I raise my hands up, letting my hair fall around my shoulders. And since my hands are already up in the air, I run my fingers through his short dark hair and then rest my arms on his shoulders. I’m grinning like a saucy little minx, but I can’t help it. “I like your wavy hair.”
“I gotta say, I like your fingers in my hair.”
Dammit, I need to know if he has hair on his chest. I bite my lower lip and unbutton just one button on his black shirt, because I’m tipsy and I’m celebrating my new life, and hello perfect smattering of chest hair. I want to get you wet and slide around on you, all the way down your happy trail.
Huh?
The song cross fades to some dreamy hip hop song that’s just a little slower, but my heart rate is picking up. I take one step closer, and he puts one hand on my hip, and dear God I like how this feels.
We’re close, so close, swaying together.
Thanks to these high-heeled boots, my lips are right by the impossibly sexy spot where the smooth honey-colored skin begins its sultry transition to barely hairy chestville, and it smells so, so good right here.
I want to press my lips against this warm, smooth, man-scented skin.
Or if I tilted my head back and up just a little…
His other warm hand is on my other hip now, and why does that feel so good?
I barely know him, and I barely know myself right now, but I feel so safe in his arms and also so excited.
He is a gentleman. I love that he waited for me to move in closer first and then boom. Hand. Other hand. And oh my, if I’m not mistaken, this gentleman has something big and naughty starting to happen in his pants.
He moves that hand that’s on my hip the tiniest bit, barely a squeeze, but it shuts my eyes and weakens my knees and takes my breath and everyone else in the room away.
I’m limp.
I’m floating.
It’s just us now.
And then I’m tilting my head back and up just a little…
His hand is cupping my neck and his full, soft, warm lips are pressed to mine, and we’re completely still or maybe we’re spinning.
It’s the first kiss of the rest of my life.
It’s perfect, and it could be enough, just this.
I could back away now, get an Uber home, and have a perfect memory of a perfect moment with a handsome stranger.
His lips pull away, ever so slowly.
I pull back so I can see him. My eyelids are so heavy, but I need to see him. I need to see his heavy lids and his slightly flaring nostrils and the tip of his tongue through his parted lips. He stares hard at my mouth.
His hand is still behind my neck.
His other hand slides up the side of me, from my waist up to my face, thumb dragging along my jaw, fingers sweeping up into my hair.
I gotta say, I like his fingers in my hair.
I gotta say, I’d like his fingers all over and inside of me, and…
Whaaaaaat?
I don’t even hear the music or the other people anymore.
Just the blood rushing in my ears.
My heart pounding.
I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose as I inhale and grab his shirt.
His hands cradle my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks, and he kisses me differently this time. Harshly, gently. Determined but hesitant. And then I moan and bite his bottom lip so lightly, but it flips a switch and there’s no more hesitation. For him or for me.
He pulls my hair aside, kisses his way down my neck, and holy shit I could fall so hard and fast for this man.
I don’t know or even care where we go from here.
I’m here for this.
I want to give him every kind of kiss I can think of, but if all we have is this moment, then I will just do this…
I place my hands on either side of his face and kiss him, quickly.
Once, twice on the mouth. And then I drag the tip of my tongue up from his slightly stubbly chin to his bottom lip, and he pulls me in by the waist and takes charge of my mouth.
Everything that I need to know about this person is distilled down to the way he communicates with his hands and his lips and his tongue.
Everything that I needed to be reminded about what’s great about men and taking chances and my instincts are in this kiss.
He tastes like peach pie and vanilla ice cream and hops and the kind of fun I want to have on non-school nights.
Or every night.
I could live in this kiss forever.
But everything’s spinning, and my eyes aren’t even open.
Uh-oh.
I might not feel good.
Fuck you, my liver. Not now!
I pull away from Alejandro as graciously as possible, cover my mouth, and serpentine as quickly as possible through all of the idiots standing between me and the ladies’ room.
I’m nauseated.
I’m cold.
It’s just me and this terrible feeling now.
I somehow manage to make it past all the other girls in line for the two toilets—fuck you, nightclub designer—and the angel at the front of the line lets me go ahead of her when one of the stalls opens up.
Yeah.
Now I remember why I hate going out to have fun.
Not one night at home while reading or knitting or making lists has ever ended with my face in a toilet.
This is what I like to call “a teachable moment.”
Raw fish, plus sake, plus German herbal digestif that’s popular with horny frat boys, plus dizzying interaction with dreamy stranger equals harsh realities of stepping outside of my comfort zone before I’m ready.
There are people on this planet who seem like they’re very comfortable with making poor decisions and doing things that result in them expelling liquid from their mouths in public. I am not one of them.
Never again.
Never again.
Well, not for a while, anyway… I want to make out with the hot guy again.
When I finally re-emerge from the ladies’ room, after cleaning the toilet and myself as best as I could and chewing a handful of breath mints (fuck you, karma), I run straight into Franklin.
“Hermione!” he yells, placing his hands on my shoulders. “You ran right past me! Which end did things come out of?”
“I really don’t like you very much right now.” I frown at him, elbowing him aside so I can find Alejandro.
I’m half-expecting him to be waiting for me around here because surely it was obvious that I was running to the bathroom to vomit.
Franklin comes with me, holding my hand.
He doesn’t believe me when I tell him I was making out with a handsome stranger.
Ten, fifteen minutes of searching the dance floor, around the dance floor, the mezzanine where I first saw him, it occurs to me…
Why would he wait around for the stranger who just ran off to barf?
Some electronic dance music that I hate is playing now, and the lights are flashing, and there are even more people in here than half an hour ago, and I just want to go home.
Franklin’s got plans with his guy in a couple of days, so we leave.
I still have a perfect memory of a perfect moment with a perfect stranger.
As long as I only remember the part up until I had to barf.