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I don't know what to say, so I lean into his touch.
He slips his hand over my hip, my ass, all the way to the hem of my dress.
Without underwear, his hands are so, so close.
"Do you want the inside or the outside?" he asks.
"Inside seems safer," I say.
"Less revealing, yeah."
And less sexy, too. But safer is good. At least this first time. "Inside."
"After you." He makes space for me.
I slide into the booth.
He slides in after me.
He's close, his jean-clad leg against my bare thigh, his pine soap in my nostrils. And that smell that's him mixing with the gin and tonic and the ocean breeze and whatever cleanser the bar uses.
"Fever Tree," he says. "I asked."
"That's the good stuff." This must be good gin too. Who would waste premium tonic water on ten-dollar Trader Joe's gin?
He looks to my glass. "You don't have to drink."
"I know." I raise my gin and tonic. "But thanks for reminding me."
"Any time."
We toast. I take a long sip. Mmm. The perfect mix of bitter quinine, botanical gin, tart lime.
And it's cooling. Not cooling enough. But what could be at this point?
"How do you like it?" I take another sip.
"It doesn't taste like Pine-Sol."
"Cheap gin can."
"That was my first experience, yeah. My only experience, really."
"Is gin too British?" I ask.
"No. Maybe. I've never asked my parents."
"Are they both Irish?"
"I don't want to talk about my parents."
Right. "I don't want to talk about your parents."
He motions to the drink. "It's sweet. Unique. Subtle. Sure of itself. Perfect for you."
"That's how you see me?"
"Absolutely."
