I take a chewy, cheesy, saucy bite. “Oh. Oh shit, that’s good.”
“It’s really just a hobby,” he says, but I can tell he’s pleased. “But I may listen to a cooking podcast or two. I do, however, have to apologize on behalf of this sad, sad salad. I wanted you to think I was, like, a halfway functioning adult and that I can make meals with more than one food group.”
“What even is a functioning adult? I ate two bagels for dinner yesterday.” The pizza nearly burns my tongue, but it’s so good that I don’t care.
To my surprise, the rest of dinner is far from the slog I worried it would be when Dominic asked to table our impending serious discussion. Maybe after Orcas, nothing about Dominic should surprise me.
“I was thinking of what we talked about this weekend, about not having many friends,” I tell him when there are only crumbs left on our plates. “And I had this idea. We should challenge ourselves to each make a friend date with someone.” Besides, I’ve been meaning to ask Ruthie to drinks again, or maybe dinner.
“A friend date?” he asks, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Okay. You’re on.” He drags his index finger up and down the stem of his wineglass. “Speaking of this weekend . . . I had a lot of fun.”
“I did, too,” I say. “And . . . I wouldn’t be opposed to it happening again. If you feel the same way.”
In response, he reaches across the table, turns my hand over so he can run that finger up my palm. Up to my wrist, circling my pulse point. That small intentional touch is enough to make me shiver. He must be able to sense it, because he’s tugging me out of my seat and over to him.
“Hi,” I say when I’m standing in front of him, my legs against his knees. I am very, very happy to be wrong about the direction this conversation took.
“Hi.” He strokes his fingers up the backs of my thighs, and when he cups my ass and pulls me onto his lap, it becomes clear that whatever talk we were about to have is going to need to wait.
It feels different, kissing him in his apartment, in his kitchen, his mouth wine-tart. Our lips fit together like they didn’t learn each other’s shape only two days ago. He runs his hands over my legs, up my back, tangles them in my hair. We kiss and we kiss and I press against his shirt’s softness, searching for something rougher. Finally, I tug it open, button by button, exploring the muscles of his chest.
He’s hard beneath me, and I position myself so I can feel him exactly where I want to. When I rock against him, he groans into my ear. I could listen to that groan on repeat for the rest of the night. Longer, probably.
“You’re evil,” he growls as I rub myself back and forth across the stiff front of his jeans.
He stands up with me wrapped around him, and I’m wondering if this is some signature move or if I just fit against him this perfectly. Once he’s vertical, we stumble down the hall to his bedroom.
Gently, I push away from him to take it all in. His room is small, a queen bed in the corner with a plain navy comforter. The furniture is IKEA again, a basic bedframe and dresser—and propped up on top of it, a box of condoms. Like it’s been waiting for us.
I can’t help laughing at it, and yet knowing he planned for this makes me want him even more.
“I wanted to be prepared,” he says against my mouth, but he’s laughing, too.
“I have some in my bag, too.”
“You know—” He puts a foot of space between us. His hair is wild, cheeks flushed. My blazer is somewhere in the hall and my jeans are half-unzipped. “You can change your mind at any time.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”
“No. I swear. I’m just . . . not good at this. I told you, I’ve only been with one person. I don’t know how these things usually go. Or what we’re supposed to talk about. I want to do this with you. A lot.” When he laughs again, it lands somewhere in the center of my heart. “It’s all I’ve been able to think about since Saturday night. But I just want you to know, if you decide you don’t want to, it’s okay.”
I try not to notice how I want to do this with you is not I want to be with you. But god, I want this, too—so badly I can’t think straight.
“Dominic,” I say, closing the space between us and placing my hands on his chest, deciding to be as clear with him as I possibly can. “I want you to fuck me.”
That’s all it takes. He leans in and crushes his mouth to mine, propelling me backward until I hit the bed and drag him down on top of me. I changed into a black lace bra and panties after work, and it’s worth it for the way he groans when he gets my shirt unbuttoned. Maybe he didn’t care about my sports bra, but he definitely doesn’t hate this one.
We’re clawing at each other now, my shirt and bra dropping to the floor, his jeans and boxer briefs in a heap next to them.
He kisses my breasts as he works my jeans down my legs. “Can you say that thing again? About what you wanted me to do?”
“What thing—oh.” I grin, dragging my fingers across his back. “I want you to fuck me.”
His cock pulses against my bare thigh, and he casts off my jeans in one swift motion. “Yes. That.”
So Dominic Yun likes dirty talk.
I can work with that.