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I’m nervous that I’ll say something dumb and make him not like me any more, that he’ll realize I’m not actually that interesting, that I’ll be bad at sex.
I’ve spent twenty-two years being the good girl, who got the good grades, who joined the right sports teams, who did the after school activities and had the right friends and won the accolades and made her parents proud.
They would not be proud of me right now. My father would be furious and my mother would strongly not approve of me losing my virginity to my math professor who I’m not even technically dating, I guess, let alone engaged or married to.
I love my mom. I think she’s an amazing woman. But she’s a hundred percent positive that all men have a why buy the cow philosophy, while I prefer to imagine that my worth as a person and potential partner doesn’t reside entirely in my hymen.
Anyway, I knock on the door, gripping the wine bottle by the neck.
There’s no response. I wait, patiently. I check the time on my phone. It’s five ’til eight, so maybe he’s in the shower, or maybe he’s still getting dressed, or doing something else that prevents his answering the door.
Or it’s not his house because you somehow got the address wrong, and this is about to get awkward.
I wait a full minute before I knock again, and this time the door opens practically under my fist and then Caleb is standing there, in gray sweatpants and a black shirt with flour all over it and a smear of something on his cheek.
“Sorry,” he says, and he smiles that smile he has, the one that’s charming and sheepish and rakish all at once, and my heart goes thadunk and I can’t help but smile back.
“It’s my fault, I’m early,” I say, and hold out the bottle of wine. “Thanks for having me.”
“I haven’t yet,” he says, lifting an eyebrow, and I laugh, my anxiety dissolving because this isn’t some high-stakes drama about a scholarship student having a torrid affair with her professor, it’s just Caleb and I being us, together.
“Take the wine and don’t be saucy,” I tell him.
“You look nice,” he says, taking the bottle from my hand. His eyes drift from my face, down my body, and he doesn’t even bother to try and hide it.
“Thanks,” I say, casually, as if I didn’t spend a full forty-five minutes shoving through my closet over and over again, as if somehow the perfect outfit would magically appear among the jeans, t-shirts, two going-out outfits, and a recent deluge of business-appropriate clothing.
What says I really want to have sex with you but also have a twenty-minute walk from my place to yours, during which I might well see someone I know?
What says I quite enjoyed being fingerbanged on a staircase last weekend and would like a repeat performance, but not in a trashy way?
Apparently, a deep red knee-length long-sleeved wrap dress and the same high-heeled ankle boots I was wearing the night we met.
“You look covered in flour,” I say, and he looks down at himself.
I also look down at him. He’s covered in flour but the black shirt is tight across his shoulders and hugs his biceps in a way that makes me feel… things.
That’s not even mentioning the sweatpants. If you’d asked me before this moment whether I like men in sweatpants I’d have give you a resounding ew, no.
But now, I’ve seen Caleb in sweatpants. They hug his hips enticingly. They skim his thighs attractively.
And there’s a bulge.
A notable one. My thoughts turn NC-17.
“It turns out I have terrible kitchen time management skills,” he says. “I meant to put on real clothes half an hour ago. Here, come in.”
“Don’t worry, it’s just me,” I say, stepping in as he closes the door behind me.
“Just?” he says, then leans in and kisses me.
His fingertips just barely brush my face, and after a long moment, he pulls back.
“I don’t want to get flour on you,” he says, apologetically.
“This dress is washable,” I tease, running one hand over his shoulder.
“Are you asking me to get you dirty, Thalia?” he asks, pressing his lips to mine without waiting for an answer, and this time his body follows suit, his heat melding to my skin from chest to knee.
And the bulge. Sweet Jesus, the bulge. I never want Caleb to wear anything but sweatpants again, because I can feel practically every ridge and curve, every hardening inch—
“I did promise myself one thing about tonight,” he says, his free hand skimming my hip, his lips brushing mine as he talks.
“Only one?” I ask.
He puts the pad of his index finger in the hollow of my throat, then drags it slowly downward, over my chest, until it hits the V of my dress.
