“That one.” I point to a booth that boasts having the best Dungeness crab in the city. “Since they brag, let’s go try it out.”
Blake and I go wild. At the end, when I pull out my wallet, Blake catches my hand midair.
“No!”
“Blake—”
“Clara—”
“I wanted the crab. I’m paying for it.”
“Absolutely not. You’re not paying for anything when you’re out with me.”
The vendor is looking between us with an amused expression. I’m not having any of this. I yank my hand away from Blake’s grip because his touch is melting my resolve, and I want to be firm.
“You’re not letting me pay for stuff I want inside the apartment, or drinks I have at your bar.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not having any of this man-must-pay nonsense.”
He holds up his hand. “It’s called being a gentleman. Never let a lady pay. You have an issue with that, then take it up with my parents. That’s how they raised me.”
He disarms me, of course, and Blake pays in the next moment. I briefly wonder if he likes to take charge in the bedroom as well. Nope, not going there. But I already did, and the question is on the tip of my tongue. I swallow it down.
The scenario repeats itself several times. By the time we’re done, the button of my jeans threatens to pop, and I feel like a stuffed teddy bear. I suck in my tummy, which shows a small beginning of a muffin top even on an empty stomach. I cycle to work twice a week, but that isn’t doing much for my tummy. Eating less carbs would help, but where is the joy in that?
The sun is setting by the time we finish our round, and more people seem to have spilled into the festival.
“This is getting claustrophobic,” I comment, and Blake nods in agreement. “Hey, I have an idea. Can we walk up the Lyon Street steps back home? They should start somewhere nearby and lead us right up in the Pacific Heights district.”
I do one full turn, trying to guess which direction Lyon Street might be, but I feel lost.
“Great idea,” says Blake. “Come on, I know the way.”
“Do you know there are some four hundred stairways in San Francisco?” I rattle off as we head out into the night.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah. Some are so well hidden, it’s like they’re a secret.”
Blake nods, impressed.
“I have the habit of memorizing random stuff I read in city guides,” I explain. “Honed the skills years ago, when Nate and I worked on that international show. Even though we spent a few weeks, sometimes even a few months in each city, the work schedule was so Draconian that I had time to cram in visiting. Tried to make the most out of the time I had, which included reading city guides thoroughly.”
Ah, but the Lyon Street stairs and their surroundings are a thing of beauty. As we climb them, I wish I had three more pairs of eyes so I could take everything in. Past the hedgerows are luxurious old mansions (some resemble small palaces), perfectly trimmed lawns, and lush plants. Far behind us, I can see the Palace of Fine Arts dome, and further still the Golden Gate Bridge. If I focus intently, I can even make out Alcatraz Island out in the distance on the water, clouded by mist. The only downside to this scenic climb is the three hundred steps or so. At some point, I feel as if someone is stabbing the left side of my belly.
“Let’s stop for a bit.” Blake merely smiles as I lean against the railing, panting. Have to say, I would’ve expected the steps to be crowded, but we’ve only encountered a handful of people so far. We stopped near one of the large, billowing trees, and I take advantage of our break to inspect it closely. Its crown is majestic and falling like a thick curtain, some branches nearly touching the ground. I slip through the curtain, with Blake right beside me.
Instantly, the air between us charges. Maybe it’s the fact that the light from the streetlamps barely reaches inside here, or that the green curtain protects us from view, but the setting is intimate. Too intimate. Heat rises to my cheeks. My neck starts to feel hot too. Actually, my entire body feels hot. A sudden gust of wind sweeps by, and a strand of hair catches at the corner of my lips. Blake pushes it away, then splays his fingers on my cheek and jaw. His thumb is pressing gently at the corner of my mouth, and I know I’m a goner. The intent in his eyes is unmistakable.
He seals his mouth over mine, and the touch is electrifying. As he feathers the tip of his tongue over my lower lip, he coaxes a moan out of me. He’s demanding entry. I open my mouth, more than willing to let him in, greedy for more of what this man has to offer. His lips are as firm as they are soft, moving expertly over mine. When he slips his tongue inside, I lift my arms, lacing them behind his head, pulling him in closer. Blake not only obliges by leaning in to me, but he fists my hair, tipping my head up. His tongue is driving me insane with rhythmic moves that are jolting to life every single cell, infusing them with desire.
I’m burning for him, needing to touch, graze, and pull. I vaguely register we’re moving, and then I feel a strange surface—tree bark—behind me. Blake is backing me up against a tree. He deepens the kiss, and my desire transforms into desperation.
I need to touch him. Every cell in my body is buzzing, and the only thing that will calm me down is touching him. Or perhaps it’s the reverse. I need him to touch me.
I slip my arms under his jacket, slowly running my hands down the expanse of his back, enjoying the feel of those taut muscles under my fingers. When I reach the waistband of his jeans, far from being satiated, I want more. So, I bring my hands to the front, slipping them under his shirt. I just need a little skin-on-skin contact. Once I have that, I become aware that one of his hands is on my waist. The other cups my ass, pulling me against him until our bodies are flush against one another. And sweet heavens, he is hard.
When we pull apart for air, we’re both panting. Blake drops his head in the crook of my neck, resting there.
“You taste so good, Clara.”