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Saw it coming, but that doesn’t make it any less hot—or welcome.
As his tongue explores my mouth, I experience déjà vu. I either had a wet dream that started just like this, or saw a couple kissing on a garden bench in a movie. But then Evan’s hand slides between my legs, pressing on my clit through my yoga pants. That’s not from a movie, that’s for sure. Not unless it was porn.
I give my brain a command to say something about us being in public, but a soft moan escapes my mouth instead.
“Yes.” Evan kisses my neck. “Lean into the feeling.”
Lean in? More like I’m about to drop off a cliff. A tension starts to coil in my core and?—
A male park employee who resembles a Neapolitan Mastiff appears on the path nearby, frowning at us.
All the blood from my clit rushes into my face as I leap to my feet.
“Why don’t you get a room?” the employee says gruffly with such annoyance that it makes me wonder if his job happens to be chasing would-be lovers from this exact bench.
Evan stands up to his full height, towering over the newcomer. “Why don’t you watch your tone?”
Is this like that time he was upset with Dr. Hugo? Something to do with the Y chromosome?
“I think you should leave.” The park dude reaches for his walkie-talkie as if it were a gun.
Before Evan does something even more male and therefore stupid, I grab his hand. “I want to see the Dali Museum anyway,” I whisper in his ear. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Calming instantly, Evan nods, and we head out.
“Here.” I grab Evan a Snickers at the gift shop. “I think you’re in a hangry mood.”
“You might have a point.” Evan stuffs the whole bar into his mouth and chews as we get into our car. “Sorry about that,” he says once we’re on the road.
“Don’t apologize.” I grin. “I find it flattering that you can’t keep your hands off me.”
“Yeah.” The corners of his lips lift. “I’m just that turned on by how modest you are.”
“Do you want to grab some more food to make sure you don’t kill someone at the museum?”
He shakes his head. “We’re almost there, and they have a very nice café.”
Turns out, nice is an understatement. Café Gala, named after the Russian woman who was Dali’s wife and muse, features Spanish food and an amazing ambience.
“These are actual tapas,” Evan says when we get some. “Notice how little they resemble a Japanese breakfast?”
“Well, then, eat your tapas and fast.” I dump spiced almonds and mixed olives onto his plate. “Hanger is still making you too prickly for my liking.”
“I’ll get you for this,” Evan says and stuffs his mouth.
After our bellies are full, we walk around, looking at surrealistic art—an activity I really enjoy, though more due to Evan’s company than any real appreciation of the nuances of Dali’s work.
Then a small piece catches my attention for some reason. In it, a woman’s body seems to be melting next to a violin, a horse is jumping out of a barrel, and an angel is looking at all this and rubbing his eyes.
“Ah, this one,” Evan says. “You should see it upside down.”
I drag my gaze away from the painting. “What?”
“This piece is famous for looking completely different when turned upside down. Half the time, they hang it that way, and half the time this way—the inferior way.”
Really? I tilt my head, but the sideways view doesn’t show me what Evan is talking about.
“Do you need help?” Evan asks.
