I’m the me who, evidently, wasn’t entirely sure about Silvio.
The me who wonders if maybe his lack of interest in axe-throwing was a sign.
Maybe I don’t know how to judge men or anybody else.
Certainly, I trusted the wrong people.
And tonight isn’t about forever. It’s about fun. It’s about an escape. It’s about a hot, charming, sexy man who wants to give me everything I need.
He sets me down, closes the distance between us, and cups mycheeks. “I haven’t kissed you enough tonight. I need to make up for it now.”
I lift my chin, an eager creature, ready and waiting. “I won’t object to more kissing.”
“Good. You’re about to get a boatload of it.”
A boatload is my new favorite measurement after Harlan drops his lips to mine and kisses me breathlessly. His pillowy lips sweep over mine as he wraps his arms around me, his fingers sliding through my hair.
Tugging me closer, he kisses me deeper.
It’s slow and lush, and it feels like melting into his arms.
My knees go weak as he kisses me with a luxuriousness that makes my bones sing Ella Fitzgerald tunes, that feels like a warm summer day spent lounging under the blue sky.
When he breaks the kiss, he glides his thumb along my jaw, down to my chin, cupping my face.
“Now, I believe I promised you multiples. And your pleasure has always been a favorite thing of mine,” he says.
He brings me to the bed, slides a hand between my legs, and strokes me till I’m gasping and calling his name.
Like I do again a little later, when he pulls me on top of him and tells me to ride him.
I oblige, and the pleasure blots out the worries and the questions.
I’m too blissed out to think, as I fall asleep in his arms.
***
But when I wake, I know something sharp and clear—I can’t start something with him as much as I want to.
I need time to sort out this mess in my head and heart.
I need yoga and wine.
I need friends and me time.
Especially since he makes me coffee the next morning, and it’s life-affirmingly delicious with just a hint of cinnamon.
“You seem like a woman who likes her spice,” he says after I drain the mug.
Already, he seems to get me. What a crazy notion. “I do yoga so I can justify my wine and coffee vices,” I say as I rinse the cup, then sigh. “I should go,” I say, a little resigned.
“All good things must come to an end,” he says.
Do I detect a hint of wistfulness in his tone too? Pretty sure I do. And I’m pretty sure I need to do some serious lotus-ing to sort through the last twenty-four hours of my life.
I need to figure out what it means that I nearly married a man who decided to take a honeymoon with my mother less than an hour later.
What it means that I went home with this hunk and had the best sex of my life on my non-wedding night.
