My chest gets warm. His smile does things to me. It does too much.
Chill out, Iris. It's the oxytocin flooding your brain. That's what happens after sex. Especially after mind-blowing, orgasmic sex.
It's a chemical reaction.
That's all.
Like heroin induced bliss.
But then love is a chemical reaction.
Really, everything you feel is a chemical reaction.
"You want something more hardcore?" he asks.
"Of course. Only the purest, least sell out bands."
"And who's that?"
"Uh…" I don't think I know a single metal band from the last ten years. Not my thing. Too loud. And my thoughts already scream at me.
"What do you listen to?"
"Electronic stuff." As long as it's mellow.
"Like…"
"Electro-pop. Depeche Mode. Soft Cell. That kind of thing."
"Anything from the last thirty years?"
I name a dozen relevant bands.
He motions to the laptop sitting on the dining table. "You can put something on."
"While we…"
"I'm not gonna work up your appetite then send you home hungry."
My smile spreads over my cheeks. "Your game is improving."
"Must be your help." He motions to the computer. "Put on your favorite album."
"You won't like it."
"Because I own a Metallica shirt?"
"Well… yeah."
"You continue to stereotype me."
"Maybe." I let my eyes roam his body. Narrow waist, defined torso, broad shoulders, strong arms and ink everywhere. "You're yet to find me a shirt."
"Wonder why."
"My clothes are a sweaty mess."
"You don't need to wear clothes."