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“Trust you to pick an analogy I can understand.”
I know Jay the way I know shadows cast on a wall. Move the light, and the shadows change. I’ve seen him in sunlight and in the harsh glare of traffic signals. Now, we kiss in time to the intermittent headlights of passing cars—a long, slow melding of mouth and body, breaking away, and starting all over again.
We pass heat back and forth between us. His chest is a hard plane beneath my hand. I can feel his erection coming to life against my hips.
I pull away an inch. “So why do we always kiss in the dark?”
His eyes bore into mine. “I have lights at my house.”
This time, when I laugh, it doesn’t feel forced at all. “Wow,” I say. “That was smooth.”
He just removes his hand from the small of my back and holds it out, palm up. “Are you coming?”
Hurt or no, memory or no, I know myself. Jay has been my friend for ages, and despite what has happened, I know the truth. I want him. I want this. Nothing else I feel changes that.
I take his hand. “How far away are you?”
“Four blocks.”
Now that we’ve embraced once, we don’t want to stop. We don’t just hold hands; our fingers explore. Our bodies brush, hip to hip.
Our eyes meet when we cross the street, and I feel myself flush from my face down to my thighs. That wash of heat lingers halfway down the block.
“Are you okay to walk in those heels?” he asks. “I should have asked before.”
These heels are short—a mere inch, which on knee-high black leather boots is nothing.
“I’m fine.”
“So what do these shoes mean?”
The meaning of these shoes is pretty standard. I just smile and shake my head. “Guess.”
“You wore them for good luck on an exam.”
My smile broadens. “Nope.”
We cross a street, and he looks down, as if he’s genuinely puzzled.
“Huh.” His thumb strokes mine. “I don’t want to be so self-centered that I imagine they’re intended for me.”
I return the caress of his thumb. The cracks in the sidewalk sprout bits of grass, golden-orange in the streetlight. “Be self-centered,” I say. “I wore them for you.”
His gaze jerks down again, lingering. His breath stutters a moment.
“They’re ‘let this not be a horribly awkward date’ shoes,” he guesses.
My laughter gurgles out. “No.”
“They’re generalized first date shoes,” he guesses.
I laugh again. “Generalized first date shoes? How do you generalize first dates? Is this even a first date?”
His gaze sweeps me from head to toe in a lengthy, searing glance. “It’s a first date, unless you’re counting the time I drove you down from LBL and we snapped at each other.”
“What about the time you walked me up to LBL and we yelled at each other?” I point out.
“There was a somewhat provocative rendezvous in my parents’ mudroom.”
“I bought you drinks and sent you insults.” My cheeks flame. “I want a rematch. I was half-drunk at the time.”
“Well.” His fingers run up my arm. “That’s what you get for not being prepared to engage in mortal combat at the drop of a napkin. You can’t defend against a takeover of the realm like that.”
Our eyes meet. And I laugh. Laughter loosens that tight tenseness inside me. Being able to laugh about everything that came before gives me hope. Tingling, aching, breath-holding hope.
“Let’s just put brackets around all those,” Jay says, “and call them date zero. One spectacularly terrible date. And we’re here.”
We’ve stopped in front of a house. I’m not sure what I was expecting. An apartment, maybe. If I’d really thought about it, I would have envisioned his parents’ palatial estate in the hills ten miles from the heart of Silicon Valley. Instead, Jay’s house is small and cozy, painted wood beams in multiple colors framing the windows. A yellow light by the door is on.
He leads me up the steps to a wooden front porch, and drops my hand long enough to unlock the door. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”
It’s the kind of older craftsman home that nobody makes any longer. The carving on the door, the wood beams bracketing the windows, suggest careful attention to detail. The porch is swept and leafless.
Jay sets his shoes on a shelf and opens the door.
“Should I take my boots off?” I ask.
He ushers me in and flips the inside light on. I get a glimpse of golden wood floors, walls in cream and light green.
“That depends.” When his voice deepens, his accent seems more prominent.
“On how long I’m staying?”
Slowly he shakes his head. “On whether you’d prefer me to take them off instead.”
My nerves coalesce in my stomach into a heated boil. I can’t look away from him. “Well.” My throat seems a little hoarse. “That would be the entire point of wearing these.”
He looks down. I’m aware of the pressure of my boots against my skin—a palpable presence, soft and warm and safe. He’s about to strip that away.
He undoes my coat, button by button. His hands linger on the belt. “You never did tell me what the shoes meant.”
“You never did guess.”
“They’re take-me-off shoes.” His hands slide the belt ring out, then glide lightly up my sides. I’ve never been so aware of my own body. Of the heat of his.
I shake my head. “Close. Not quite.”
He slides the coat off me. I’m not sure what I was expecting—maybe for him to toss it to one side and kiss me. Instead he opens a closet and puts it on a hanger. He hangs up his own jacket before he turns back to me.
“You put things away.”
There’s no mail on the side table. No cups strewn about the living room.
He shrugs and gestures me to a chair. “Sit.”
I do.
He kneels in front of me. His hands skim up my boots. I can feel the soft leather give slightly against that gentle pressure. He looks up into my eyes, and warmth washes over me.
He finds the zipper at my left knee and slowly, slowly pulls it down.
“In common parlance,” he says, “one would call these fuck-me boots.” His fingers touch the sensitive flesh at my knees, and an electric current arcs through me. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “The thought occurred to me…possibly the moment I laid eyes on you at the restaurant.” His finger travels down my leg, down the silky black stocking I am wearing, to my ankle. He shakes the boot loose. “But here’s the thing—if they are fuck-me boots, I want you to say it.”
&nb
sp; I can scarcely speak. “They are fuck-me boots.”
He exhales. Finds the zipper of the other boot. “I would hate to be presumptuous. After all, you would have wanted to make up your mind sometime after you put your boots on.”
“No.” He unzips my other boot, and my voice skitters up a few notes as cool air hits my thigh. “Not at all.”
“No, you haven’t made up your mind?”
I shake my head. “No. I intended to do my best to fuck you when I put on the shoes.” It was the only simple truth in this whole mess. This will likely come crashing down. But since it’s inevitable, I might as well enjoy myself. And him.
Slowly, he peels back the leather. “Maria.” His fingers slide down my leg. His eyes meet mine. “Do you think I’m the sort to put out on a first date?” There’s a glint of humor in his expression. His thumb brushes my knee, telling me that he is exactly that sort.
I reach out and run my hand down his jaw. His eyes flutter shut when I brush my thumb along his lips. “Jay,” I whisper, “I have always known—deep down—that I could bring you to your knees. It was just a matter of wanting to do it.”
He’s on them now. He doesn’t protest. His hands come to the tops of my thighs. “Fair enough. I’ve always known what I would do if I ended up here.” His voice is like rich, dark chocolate. “Anything off-limits here?”
I exhale and let go. “Touch everything.” He slides my legs apart. Leans down. That first touch of his mouth against my kneecap… My eyes shut, and I give in to the sensation. His palms burn hot against my thighs. His mouth slowly kisses up my inner thigh. His fingers crawl up my hips and hook in my underwear.
“Tell me you love it,” he growls.
My voice is trembling as I speak. “I like it.”
He lifts his head to look into my eyes. “Careful. I enjoy a challenge.”
I run my hands through his hair. “I know.”
He exhales in a rush and pulls my panties down. But instead of tossing them to the side, he deliberately shakes them out. Folds them. Sets them next to my boots.
When he returns his full attention to me, I want to shiver. He always did tell me he was focused, and having him look at me like that…
My throat feels dry. My fingers curve against his scalp.
