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“I wouldn’t want that,” I said in mock horror. In truth, I was as eager to get back to the excellent food as I was to be closer to Simon.
When I sat and moved my chair to the table, my knee brushed against his. Instead of pulling away as I expected, the knee in question pressed more firmly against my thigh. I glanced up at Simon, but he was engrossed in taking another bite of the duck.
“You’re behind,” he said with a nod toward my plate.
I quickly polished off the trout, took a sip of the pinot, and moved on to the duck.
“Which did you decide?” I asked. “The pinot or the cab?”
“Either. The pinot brings out the sweetness of the sauce while the cab highlights the flavor of the meat. I can’t decide which would be the better bridge to the venison.”
“Does that mean I should mix the wines together?” I asked, then laughed at Simon’s horrified expression.
He rolled his eyes at me, then waved a hand in my direction. “Tell me what you think.”
I did as he asked, and, honestly, I couldn’t advise him. Both were excellent and, as he said, brought out different qualities in the food. The duck was earthy and the dark cherry sauce he’d used for it was nearly sinful, but then we turned our attention to the venison, and I nearly groaned again. The port wine reduction was rich and flavorful, the meat like velvet and cooked to perfection, and the small serving of scalloped potatoes a perfect accompaniment. The Cabernet paired perfectly with the flavors and brought out the darker notes of black pepper and clove. It was sublime.
“Save the cab for the venison,” I said, “so the ultimate dish has its own moment.”
Simon nodded, swallowed hard. “That’s a good way of putting it.”
I was pleased that Simon found my comment helpful and nudged his knee under the table. He grinned at me and put his fork down as he reached for his wine. As he took a sip, his hand inched forward, and his fingers grazed the side of my own hand. Turning my hand over entangled our fingers, but neither of us moved away. I stared at our entwined digits, then raised my eyes to meet Simon’s gaze.
His dark eyes prevented me from seeing if his pupils were blown, but from the way he was breathing, I was sure he was as aroused as I was. His thumb stroked the side of my hand, and it was almost like he was stroking my dick the way it lit up my body. I shivered. And still we stared at each other as if calling attention to what we were doing would break the fragile moment.
The tip of Simon’s thumb traced a slow line across the center of my palm, and I shivered again. A soft moan left my parted lips as Simon’s touch seemed to caress my heart. I closed my eyes and tried to keep my breathing steady, but it grew increasingly more difficult as Simon traced the edges of my fingers with his own. I had no idea there were so many nerve endings in my hand, but he was lighting up each and every one of them.
“Look at me, Becks,” he said softly, and I opened my eyes to see him staring at me intently. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m not attracted to you or that I don’t want something to happen with you tonight. The timing is shitty, I know.” He smiled tentatively, and I smiled back.
“Understatement,” I murmured.
“It is. And I feel seven shades of creepy telling you this, but if I don’t, I know I’ll never get another chance. If you tell me it’s not the right time, I promise, I’ll back off.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I want.”
Simon’s smile widened. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my palm, then turned my hand over and left a kiss on the sensitive skin between each of my fingers. It was gentle, it was slow, and it turned my heartbeat into a mad tango. A small voice in the back of my head told me I was being ridiculous, and I was only feeling this way because I’d been on an emotional rollercoaster this evening and needed to feel cherished, desired, attractive, but I told that voice to fuck off. All of that might have been true, but so what? This beautiful, talented, engaging young man wanted me, and I was tired of playing it safe. Especially when I wanted him, too.
“Simon,” I sighed. “What about the meal? All your hard work?”
“You really want to finish?”
He still held my hand and was rubbing my index finger along his lips. They were warm and soft and so smooth. I shifted my hand so I could trace their outline with my fingertip.
“It’s so good,” I said. “I’ve never tasted anything this delicious before.”
“Now, that’s a shame, Becks.”
Simon let me continue to explore his face, but he began cutting small pieces from the venison on his plate and holding them out to me so I could eat. It shouldn’t have been erotic or even arousing, but it was. I’d never had a lover or potential lover feed me before. And I startled a bit at the thought that Simon was still only a potential lover. We hadn’t done anything more than touch, and in the most innocuous of places: our hands.
“Then let lips do what hands do,” I murmured as Simon raised the glass of wine to my mouth. I took a sip, the lines from Romeo and Juliet’s miraculous shared sonnet running through my head. It was not a play I enjoyed teaching, to say the least, but, at the moment, with the growing sexual tension between us, I found myself quoting from it and understanding the longing behind those lines in a completely different way as our hands touched, and I was captivated by the feel and sight of Simon’s lips.
Richard? Richard who? Just like Romeo forgot dear Rosaline when he set eyes on Juliet, I found myself hard pressed to remember that just a few hours ago, I had hoped myself to be engaged by this point in the evening. For a split second, I wondered how I would have been feeling as we neared the end of this magnificent meal and the dessert course, with my intended proposal, loomed closer. Would Simon’s carefully arranged progression dishes have awakened my body in the same way? Would I be aware of myself in these new and glorious ways? Would I have been willing to skip a part of this excellent meal just to lessen the time between our eating and the moment I could have him all to myself in the bedroom if it were Richard sitting next to me instead of Simon?
My thoughts were interrupted by the slow caress of Simon’s thumb on my lower lip. I parted my lips and touched the tip of my tongue to the skin just below his nail, aware as never before of the difference in textures. Simon drew in a sharp breath, then pressed his thumb against my teeth. I bit down lightly, just enough for my tongue to tease along the small mound of flesh. When Simon groaned, I felt it in my body, a line running from him to the center of my being.
When I let go, Simon moved his hand to cup my chin. He drew me forward as he raised the wine glass to my lips again so I could take another sip. I did so, then he brought the glass to his own mouth and did the same. Our faces were so close I could feel the heat of his breath on my skin, inhaled the spicy aroma of the wine as he exhaled. His fingers exerted the smallest amount of pressure on my jaw, drawing me forward, and closing the distance between us. The candlelight reflected in his eyes, but it was the gentleness, the desire in them that captivated me.
“I’m going to kiss you, Becks,” he said. “Is that all right?”
