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Thomas shakes his head. "I prefer cups if you don’t have wine glasses. Otherwise, it just looks like grape juice."
I smile and shake my head. Does it really matter?
"I like the unpredictability of life," he says. "I like it when something is different than I expected it to be. Most of the time."
"Most of the time?" I ask, taking the cup he hands me. I smell the wine before sipping it. When I taste it, I like what I find.
"This is nice," I say.
Thomas nods. "I thought you might like it. Pinot Noir is always a good place to start when you don’t know if you like wine or not. The bold wines can get a bit much, without a proper introduction."
"You didn’t answer my question," I say. "You said most of the time. When don’t you like it being different?"
He shrugs.
"I think a better way to say it is that I like unpredictability. And chance. For instance, you’re very unpredictable. I never know what you’re thinking. I never thought this was what I would get when I saw you at Starbucks."
I smile at him. He leans toward me. Since our first kiss, he hasn't kissed me again. I shiver at the thought that it'll happen again.
His hand slides onto my cheek. His touch is feather light and he moves slowly, like he's being careful not to scare me away. Thomas closes the gap between us, leaning in. His eyes slide to my lips. I wait until he's only inches away before I close my eyes and give myself to him.
His lips brush against mine, chasing shivers down my spine. The kiss is firmer, more insistent. It lights a fluttering heat inside me.
Thomas caresses my cheek with his thumb, rubbing small circles as he kisses me. He guides me, opening his mouth against mine so I do the same. He slides his tongue into my mouth and tastes me. His tongue swirls lazily around mine, and every thought I have slips away until it's just him and I in a surreal bubble.
Thomas slides his hand down my neck. He thumbs my collarbone before moving even further still. His hand is large and warm. Strong knowing fingers move onto my chest, and I gasp. He heads toward my breasts.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice warns me that this is headed somewhere I've vowed not to go. I ignore it. My stomach erupts in butterflies. The heat from his skin washes through my body and pools between my legs. The skin on my breasts tingles in anticipation.
When his hand lands on my breast, my nipple tightens and I moan softly. I haven't been touched like this before, and it's pure pleasure. My hands tremble slightly, and my breathing is shallow, but I want this.
I want more. So help me, I want more.
As if he reads my mind, Thomas lifts his other hand and places it behind my neck. He pulls me closer and presses his body against mine as best he can while sitting down. He massages my breast more eagerly, moving his body against me in a way that makes me think of dark, dirty things.
Slowly, his hand slides down my back, following my spine, until he reaches the bottom of my shirt. His slips his hand underneath my shirt. His skin is scalding on mine.
His fingers trace my spine all the way to my bra strap, and he unclasps it.
I'm not sure how to respond. The gesture is so personal, invasive in a way, but I still have my shirt on. We aren't doing anything serious, are we?
Thomas carries on kissing me for a while, doing nothing else. I relax again, letting him take over.
We kiss for a while before he moves his hand down again. This time, he pulls the shirt up. I stop kissing him and swallow. Thomas takes the opportunity to work the shirt over my head and drops it on the floor. I sit in front of him, my bra unclasped, barely hidden from his view, breathing hard.
"You’re beautiful," Thomas whispers. He moves slowly, peeling the bra straps from my shoulders and letting it join the shirt on the floor.
I'm naked from the waist up. I feel vulnerable. The air in the room causes my nipples to tighten, and goose bumps break out over my skin. I cross my arms over my chest.
Thomas shakes his head. "Don’t cover up," he says. "It’s pure perfection."
To drive his point home, he kisses me again. Slowly, I drop my arms. He lifts his hand and places it on my breast again, massaging me. He takes my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolls it, tweaking, tugging. I moan into his mouth. Whatever he's doing to my nipple is a direct line to my arousal.
I shudder. I want more. Still, more.
In a bold move, I
reach for Thomas’s shirt. It's a button-up short sleeve shirt with a collar. He's always impeccably dressed. I undo the buttons one by one. The shirt slowly opens to show a chiseled chest. A smattering of chest hair covers his pecs. I reach for it and run my fingers through it.
