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Chapter Eleven
Payton
It’s hard to concentrate on gladiolus and gerbera daisies when your mind keeps replaying the way Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbed when I tied his necktie. Or the look of pure lust reverberating from his very soul as he watched me through the mirror. I’m sure I wasn’t able to hide the raw need that tore through my own body.
The first day of the show has been enlightening, to say the least. The booths from big named florists and designers from all over the United States and other countries were almost overwhelming. There were so many talented people in the building that I didn’t know where to look first. I took dozens of photos of displays and arrangements in hope of implementing some of those ideas into my own shop.
A late morning session on thinking outside of the box was my favorite of the day. The designer, Carlos Santiago from New York, explained that everything doesn’t have to be traditional and symmetrical. The same roses and carnations bouquets that are perfectly round aren’t what are in style at the moment. Sure, those have a time and a place, but most customers will see the beauty in rarity and different. He encouraged us to go with our hearts and come up with unique bouquets that would dazzle the clients.
Needless to say, I left the first day eager and excited to get back to Jupiter Bay.
However, something else stepped in as I walked through the entrance of The Freemont. Nervousness.
Do you know how long it’s been since I had a date? I mean a real date, like with dinner and conversation? The possibilities of handholding and a goodnight kiss? Okay, fine. There will definitely be a goodnight kiss, but all of the other stuff?
Dates over the last few years have become few and far between as I’ve worked to build my business. Long hours and very late nights have been my norm for as long as I can remember. Those dates were always casual, someone I may have met at the bank or at my shop, but never anyone I pictured myself being with for longer than the right now. A few turned into a handful of dates, which translates into some romps in the hay, as Grandma would so bluntly state. But there was never that spark, that desire to really just be with a person because being without them wasn’t an option.
Not like it is with Dean.
Not like it is for Jaime and Ryan and Meghan and Josh.
Notice how I didn’t say Lexi and Chris? That’s because I don’t feel like they have that spark anymore. Did they ever really have it? I’m not sure. They met in high school where hormones rule and everything was just comfortable for them. But now? I see less comfort and more tension. Even when he’s around, he’s not mentally present. I would never encourage her to leave him, but I no longer feel like he’s the right choice for her. She’ll discover this on her own, I know, so for now, mum’s the word.
I use the key card to enter our room. Our room. The one I share with Dean. Just thinking that makes me shiver with anticipation. There’s no point in denying it any longer: I want him. He’s probably bad for me, like smoking or drinking, but I can’t stop myself. He’ll probably be an even worse habit to kick.
But as long as I keep my eyes open, I shouldn’t have any issues when this ends on Friday. When we go back home, he’ll go his way and I’ll go mine. He’ll serve as my accountant and handle my taxes. He’ll no longer handle other things. Things that I really want him to handle–and rub and kiss and fondle and lick–tonight.
When I walk in, Dean’s already there. He’s fresh from the shower, his towel hung low on his hips. I stare openly at his body like I’m a wolf about to devour a baby deer. He’s lean, but defined with a six-pack and that delicious little V that travels from his hips to the place I suddenly want to explore. With my tongue.
“Hey, sorry. I forgot to take my clothes into the bathroom with me. I’m kinda new at this roommate thing,” he says with a sheepish grin.
Oh, no. No need to apologize. Please, go ahead. Drop the towel. Please, for the love of God, drop it.
“It’s okay,” I reply with what I’m sure is my version of a predatory smile.
Dean grabs a pair of jeans and a pair of boxers from the dresser. “I’ll throw on some clothes and then you can have the bathroom to get ready.”
“That’s fine,” I reply, dropping my stuff on one of the chairs beside the small table.
Dean’s computer is sitting on top with a small stack of folders. The reusable tote bag I’ve been carrying was a freebie from one of the many vendors. It’s loaded up with brochures, pictures, and free samples that I picked up from the numerous businesses at the show. Before I head over tomorrow, I’ll be sure to empty it out so that I’m ready for tomorrow’s offerings.
My roommate reemerges a few minutes later, fresh in a pair of jeans and a tight t-shirt. I watch as he walks over to the closet, barefoot, and grabs a blue button down from the hanger. There’s something incredibly sexy about a man walking around barefoot in a pair of great-fitting jeans. It’s like an aphrodisiac. Throw in a nice button-down with the sleeves rolled up a bit on the forearms? I’m practically a puddle of hormones.
Slipping into the bathroom, I take a quick shower, careful not to get my hair wet. I spend extra time shaving my legs, underarms, and the bikini area. As soon as I’m scrubbed clean, I apply lotion to every square inch of my body. There’s no reason not to be smooth and smell great, right?
After freshening up my makeup and hair, I slide on my favorite pair of skinny jeans and a black three-quarter-sleeve sweater. Silver bangle bracelets, a long silver necklace with matching earrings, and a sexy pair of black pumps complete my outfit. With a spritz of perfume, I consider myself ready for the date and move to join Dean in the living space.
I wish I could have recorded his reaction when I walked into the room. As it is, it’s something I’ll never forget. When he turns around, his eyes burn with desire, as he looks me over from head to toe and back up again. In a moment, he’s moving towards me. Pride swells inside of me, mixing with my own lust. It’s a heady feeling, knowing that this man wants me the way he does. I see it blazing in his eyes, feel it in the way he touches me.
When he stands directly in front of me, my breath lodges in my throat. His big hand grazes against my cheek as he stares deeply into my eyes. “You’re gorgeous,” he says. His touch completely undoes me.
“Thank you. You look pretty fabulous yourself.”
Dean takes a hold of my left hand and brings it to his lips. The touch is felt clear down to my toes, vibrating the junction of my legs. I’m wet, and the date has barely just begun.
“Ready?” he asks, keeping my hand in his as he leads me towards the doorway. We both grab our coats since the January air can be a bit brisk this time of year.
It’s a short walk to the restaurant where he made reservations, so we opt to walk the block and a half instead of using a car. The cool air helps clear my mind. Well, until Dean places his hand on my lower back about halfway down the block. I can feel his warmth through the layers of clothing. There’s something possessive, primitive about the gesture. It’s as if he’s making some sort of statement. It’s not like he needs to guide me through throngs of people since the sidewalks are mostly empty.
