The Ground Rules Part 16

"As you wish," I say turning around, checking out my reflection in the mirror. I do look kind of pretty.

"That one's nice for the first time," she says. "It's demure and cla.s.sy. You don't want to come off too h.o.r.n.y the first time."

I turn to her and smile. She can be so funny.

"Save the red set for when you really want to get f.u.c.ked hard," she says.

My jaw drops. "Gwen!"

"What?" she says with a quick shrug of her shoulders, one leg crossed over the other, still filing her nails.

I smile at her. Sometimes I ask myself how in the heavens she and I fit so well together.

Well, it's finally here.

The night I have been anxiously waiting for...our first "date."

Part of me wants it to be over before it begins. And the other part wants to discover it slowly...and all its possibilities.

Gabe seems as nervous as I am. I help him pick out an outfit-we settle on sleek black dress pants and a striped gray and black b.u.t.ton shirt.

I stand next to him and study his reflection in the tall mirror hung in our walk-in closet. "I think Bridget will like this."

He doesn't say a word.

I look miniscule in my slip of a dress, standing next to his tall frame. "This is so weird."

"We are so f.u.c.ked up," he says simply, a hint of humor in his expression.

"I still can't believe we're actually going through with this."

He wraps his hand softly around the curve of my hip. "Me either. Are we crazy?"

"Yes."

"Are you having second thoughts? We can still call it off, you know."

I think about Weston, about the last time I saw him, dressed in a charcoal tailored suit, the brilliant green of his eyes peering at me through gorgeous lashes as he went over the "rules" so diligently. And I think about his hand on my knee that time at his office and the electrifying current it sent through me.

I smile up at Gabe's reflection. "No...let's do this."

I smile at Edward as he opens the car door for me. I've got this down pat now-I'm supposed to wait and let him open the door for me. It kind of makes me feel like a movie star. I take his welcoming hand as I gingerly step out of the town car. I run my manicured fingers (today, both my hands and feet look amazing) along the lace on my dress (one of those impulse buys I thought I'd never get to wear-vintage-inspired, sheer, cream, delicate, lace-trimmed and tiny). The dress almost looks like a slip that could easily be torn off-and that's the point. I've worn the lacy white set underneath, the demure one.

The air is surprisingly hot and humid tonight. My up-do, sheer dress, and strappy sandals were a perfect choice. Weston is waiting for me when I enter the restaurant, a small, casual, intimate Italian place.

I clutch my beaded bag nervously. For a brief second, I worry I'm going to be sick and hurl all over the quaint black and white tiled flooring.

The expression on his face is unmistakable.

He likes my dress.

He leans in and gives me a light kiss on the cheek. "You look lovely." My knees almost give out.

He kissed me.

The food is delicious but I can't quite appreciate it-I'm just too on edge. Weston seems to have a healthy appet.i.te-completely unaffected. What is it with men? Why do these kinds of things not affect them? Perhaps they just hide it better.

My gaze travels to the jars of pasta sauce and bottles of olive oil lined along the wall. I think about Gabe and Bridget and wonder what they're doing at this exact moment. And I push the thoughts immediately out of my mind.

Weston and I don't say much. And he doesn't really look at me-his eyes seem to be glued to the red and white checkered table cloth.

He occasionally puts his knife down and rubs the back of his neck or traces circles along the bottom of his wine gla.s.s. I watch him, fork mid-air, completely fascinated by his quirks.

He's just as nervous as I am.

Even on edge, he's gorgeous-dressed in a dark striped shirt, open at the collar. He doesn't wear his customary cufflinks tonight.

He sets his gla.s.s on the table and finally ventures a look up at me and puts his hand softly on mine. "I want you to know..."

His touch lights me up.

"I have no expectations. Let's just see where the night leads."

He's so sweet. I breathe a little easier, realizing there's really no reason to worry. Whatever happens, I know he'll treat me with respect.

I twirl my fork in my pasta repeatedly. "I can't eat," I confess. "I'm too anxious."

He smiles at me.

"You should try to eat," he presses. "You need energy."

For what?

I think he catches the look of horror on my face. "A walk would be nice later," he says, a smile playing on his lips. His smile always makes me melt. I don't want to go for a walk-I want to go straight to his bed.

He picks up his fork again and cuts into his veal. "What do think of this place?" he asks. "I know it's not much. I wanted this night to be casual," he adds. "Is it to your liking?"

I look around the quaint restaurant. It has a certain charm, but it's not quite as s.e.xy as I would have liked. All I can think about is s.e.x.

"Do you like Italian food?" he asks, fork mid-air.

"I do. Doesn't everyone?"

"I think so," he says. "Didn't you say you were part Italian?"

"Yes. One quarter Italian and three quarters Irish."

We've had this conversation before. Small talk isn't exactly what I had in mind for tonight. The vibe between us is way too formal. He's never going to make the first move-he's just too d.a.m.ned proper. We won't get anywhere at this rate. And I want to get somewhere. But unfortunately, I'm not quite sure how to elevate the conservation to the next level.

I put my fork down and take a sip of wine. "You are quite the gentleman, aren't you?"

"Always."

"Well...could you try not to be? Just for tonight," I say, attempting a sultry voice, but I'm no Marilyn Monroe.

A slow smile stretches across his face. "I'll see what I can do."

I smile and look away, feeling myself blush-I am so bad at this flirting business. I wonder if there are courses on the subject, maybe a Flirting for Dummies?

"Weston," I say, hesitating just a bit. "I love your smile. You should smile more often."

His lip curves up into a wide grin. "I can try."

It really isn't like me to flirt profusely or to make the first move, but I really want to be with him, and it seems all I can feel is this pent-up s.e.xual energy within me-it's almost unbearable.

I lean in closer. "You know what your smile does to me?" I ask playfully.

He stares at me, his expression curious, and takes a sip of water, his movements slow and deliberate.

"It makes me want you," I tell him, my voice silky.

He swallows hard. His eyes linger on mine. I can see I've rendered him speechless. I don't think he was expecting this of me, but I can tell from his darkened gaze that he likes it.

"Right now and right here," I whisper, surprised at my own boldness.

He chokes a little on his water. But he smiles. He likes it. His eyes seem to get even darker.

He wants me too.

Now, this is more like it, I think. I'm sitting with this delicious man, and we're both into each other. We should be flirting, not making small talk.

"I don't think I ever answered your question," I say, looking off into the distance. "Yes. I like the restaurant." My gaze sweeps over the cozy s.p.a.ce and its brick covered walls and framed black and white photos of Italy.

"I'm glad," he says, his eyes still intense.

I tilt my head, trying to be seductive. "You know what I like about it? It's small and intimate."

"It is," he agrees. "That's why I chose it."

"You know," I whisper. "These small places usually have private washrooms."

He swallows hard. His gaze is glued to mine. He's not stupid. He knows where I'm going with this.

I pause, take a sip of wine, and grab my clutch. "I'm going to powder my nose."

My eyes linger on him as I walk away.

The poor man looks absolutely flabbergasted.

My heart starts to hammer in my chest as I make my way to the back of the restaurant. Suddenly, I start to panic.

What am I doing? I can't do this. This isn't me. I'm not even sure there is a private washroom-what if it's just a bunch of dirty disgusting public stalls.

This was a very bad idea.

I follow the washroom sign and round the corner, wanting to die. I literally want my life to be over at this exact second.

That's it...The End.

But as I reach the washroom, I breathe a little easier.

It is a private washroom, and there seems to be no one around. I enter slowly and study my surroundings. It's not dirty, but not particularly clean either. It's simple-a lone pedestal sink and white toilet, waste basket, towel, and soap dispensers. A large gilded mirror catches my reflection...I look absolutely terrified.

What was I thinking? I wonder, my back pressed against the door.

He's hasn't followed me.

Weston Hanson hates germs. The man applies hand disinfectant religiously. He also appears to have OCD and a strong aversion to public displays of any kind.

Weston Hanson does not have raunchy s.e.x in public washrooms.

I bury my face in my hands. I can feel the familiar lump in my throat, and I know the tears are coming.

Chapter Eleven.

Better than good.

I HEAR A LIGHT KNOCK on the door.

I turn around and open it slowly.

I see him.

He comes in and locks the door behind us, his gaze glued to mine.

His lips are on mine before I can say a word. His tongue is in my mouth. His kiss is hungry. He presses me hard against the door, holds my face tightly in his hands...he owns me.

I have never been kissed quite like this before-with such raw emotion, such hunger. I feel my entire core melting and a deep ache in my stomach, a wonderful ache.

I drop my clutch and reach for his skin. I want to touch him. I pull his shirt and slide my hand along the warm smooth skin of his stomach. He moans in my mouth and slides his hand up the inside of my thigh. I'm so aroused, I fear I might climax before he even touches me.