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This was because he was charming and interesting and funny and open and honest. His awesome browbeating of Oskar on the subject of body-shaming I wished I had on tape.
And he was gentlemanly and affectionate, wrapping his arm around my shoulders on the bench where we sat, tucking me to the warmth of his side, doing this in a casual way that felt familiar, even if I’d obviously never had that with him before.
Doing it also in a protective way that felt tender, because my satin skirt and wrap didn’t entirely keep out the chill but being cozied up to Hale did.
And last, doing it in a possessive way that I never in my life thought I’d get off on. But belonging to Hale on that bench on that beach with the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan skyline spread out before us, well…
Not to put too fine a point on it, it was the most precious and promising moment I’d ever experienced.
Though, it was after he walked me up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, then followed me in and waited until I turned on my lights, that was what occupied my mind that morning. And the morning before, the one before that, and so on, as well as far too much of the whole of my days (and nights).
I’d thanked him again for the evening, particularly going to my parents’ house for dinner, and that was when he got close.
He captured my chin between his thumb and the side of his index finger.
And he’d murmured, “Stop thanking me, baby, it was my honor.”
After that, he let my chin go only so he could run his fingers along my jaw, cup it, his head descending slowly, giving me the opportunity to indicate I wasn’t all right with what was about to happen.
An opportunity I didn’t take.
So he kissed me.
It was surprising because it was not invasive, aggressive, or claiming, like him shoving his tongue in my mouth when I wasn’t ready for it.
Oh no.
His firm lips pressed hard against mine, his hand gentle at my jaw, the smell of him— outdoorsy pine mingled with an amber musk that was so subtle, I only smelled it when I was that close to him, which made me feel like he’d let me in on a thrilling secret.
It lasted mere seconds.
I didn’t even get to taste him.
And it was the best kiss I’d ever had.
When it was over, which was far too soon, he stayed so close, it was like I felt his words as well as heard them when he said, “I want to see you again.”
And after that kiss, that entire night, what could I do?
I did the only thing I could.
I said, “Okay.”
He touched his lips to mine, his eyes smiling, and that was when he left.
This move was so smooth, I hadn’t realized how exceptional of a play it was until after I was in bed and my vibrator and I’d had a session.
But it was a play, though I didn’t know it at the time.
It was, considering he said he wanted to see me again, and in the days since, he was in town, and although he responded relatively swiftly to texts and didn’t make me wait for feedback after I sent the rough cut of the interview to him, ditto with the final, I didn’t see him again. And he didn’t ask to see me.
Now he was leaving.
I wasn’t a game player, mostly because I wasn’t in the game.
This didn’t mean I didn’t want a husband and children. I did. Very much. Both.
I liked men’s company. I liked their attention. I’d had good sex, so I liked sex.
