She knew adrenaline could do that.But why would I be pumping adrenaline right now?she thought as she stared back at him, noticing there was one particular area of her that was not dry, but quite the opposite.
He looked around and then suddenly stood up and walked to the back of the restaurant.
He returned carrying a bottle of water and poured a glass for her before he sat back down.
Why was he acting so not like Sir Stick Up His Ass? But then, there were quite a few times he’d been un-Sir Stick Up His Assish: in Montana, in Austin, with Sofia and Beatrice, etc.
She drank the entire glass before she set it back down.
He picked up the bottle of champagne, placing his right hand over the cork. “Sometimes, the thing to do isn’t the obvious thing. Most people make the mistake of turning the cork. But if you don’t want to lose any champagne, you should hold the cork and turn the bottle.”
The cork emitted the faintest pop.
Not one drop spilled.
Perfection.
Fucking Sir Galahad.
Once they left the restaurant, he steered her around a corner, down a dark alleyway. She was just about to ask where they were going when they reached a courtyard nestled by buildings on all sides.
It had rained earlier in the evening, and the air, crisp and fresh, carried the scent of damp earth and citrus blossoms. The walls of the buildings surrounding the courtyard were adorned with creeping ivy. Embedded in the intermingling vines were small lights that looked like twinkling stars. Out beyond the walls, the sound of distant chatter from nearby cafes drifted through the night air. But here, in this hidden courtyard, there was a quiet peace, as if the rain had momentarily washed the world away.
In the center was a scattering of tables with mosaic-tiled surfaces. Those with people sitting at them were dry, but a few of the tables still held the faint shimmer of raindrops.
She watched as a man quickly swept the water from one of the small ones, placed dry cushions on the two chairs, and then invited them to sit down. Clarke held up two fingers and said, “Sol y Sombra.” The waiter nodded.
The table was clearly meant for two lovers or at the very least two people out on a romantic date. Rather than place her legs under it where they were sure to make contact with his, she positioned them at an angle to the right.
She watched his gaze track that slit up her skirt, and her mouth returned to the Sahara while her pussy journeyed to the tropics. During monsoon season.
“What did you order?” Ceci asked, in an effort to distract herself as much as him.
“It’s a digestif—brandy and anise. It’s good for the stomach. It aids in digestion.”
“Is your stomach bothering you?”
“No. But you should always follow a meal like the one we just had with a digestif. It’s good for balance.”
The waiter returned with two brandy snifters.
“No toast?” she asked, watching him about to take a sip.
He hesitated. After a moment’s pause, he said. “May we always have the wisdom to know what matters, the courage to pursue it, and the good fortune to toast to it. Often.”
The last drops of rain that had clung to the awnings splashed on the cobblestones as he touched her glass with his.
A perfect toast.
Had she ever heard one better?
She peered at him. “Do you always do what you should do?”
“I try to.”
“What about what you shouldn’t do?”
His eyes slivered as one corner of his lip twitched before rising. “Occasionally.” He took another sip. “It would seem more often than not when I’m around you.”
