“We’re just as exciting in bed as we are at work on those spreadsheets,” she joked.
“Somehow I don’t think you’d be boring anywhere, Britt,” he said.
“So take me home,” she offered.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m super sure. Like six thousand percent sure,” she said, nodding enthusiastically.
“That’s a very high percentage for a person who does math for a living.”
“So you should take me seriously.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Did you drive?”
“I took a cab.”
“Then you can ride with me.”
“You’re not driving anywhere, slugger. We’ll get a cab.”
“Why?”
“Three margaritas,” he said. “I don’t want to die, and I don’t think I have bail money if you have to take a breathalyzer test.”
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll take a cab.”
Jack led her out of the restaurant, taking her hand in his with assurance. He held up his arm and a cab swung to the curb and picked them up. She gave her address and held onto his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder. She felt warm and loose, relaxed and happy. He had great biceps, firm under her fingertips and made her anticipation grow. They raced through the darkness, neon lights whizzing past the window in a blur. At her building, they stumbled out onto the pavement after he paid the cab. She managed to get her key in the lock on the fourth attempt, and they crashed up the stairs, laughing and talking in stage whispers. At her d
oor, he covered her hand with his, stopping her from turning the knob.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes. Six thousand percent, remember?”
“I just—don’t want to do anything you’ll regret in the morning when you’re sober.”
“I’m not drunk, Jack. I’m tipsy, and I’m a little bit high on you—the hot stranger who bought me dinner.”
“I didn’t buy you dinner. Tamarind bought you dinner.”
“Right. You disappeared for ten minutes, then suddenly the waiter says we’re not being charged. I’m not so sure restaurants give a shit if I get dumped, particularly restaurants with thirty dollar margaritas.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Let’s just say you shouldn’t look for work as a spy if the band doesn’t work out.”
“Damn, I thought I was so subtle,” he said with a half-smile.
“Are you convinced of my cognitive ability to provide consent?”
“Anyone who can say cognitive ability can’t be that wasted,” he said and followed her inside.
Britt flicked on the lights, briefly concerned that the place would be a mess. Immediately, she figured out that he wouldn’t care. Jack cupped her cheek in his hand with unexpected tenderness, stroked her cheekbone with his thumb, and brushed his lips against hers lightly, teasingly. Smiling, she stepped in closer to him, her keys clattering to the floor as she put her hands in his hair, pulling his face down to hers. He kicked the door shut and claimed her mouth. Jack’s shirt landed on the floor near her keys, and her shoes joined them. In a frenzy, they peeled off their clothes, parting their kiss only long enough to remove essential garments. He was a phenomenal kisser, his tongue darting sensuously into her mouth and withdrawing. She nearly sang with ecstasy, remembering for a second the way that Kevin used to just jam his tongue in her mouth and leave it there like its mere flaccid presence should thrill her. This man, on the contrary, knew what to do with his mouth, his hands driving her wild.
Even in her tipsy blur, Britt stopped. She took a good look at him, golden and lean, muscled in the right places. His black hair fell across his face, his breath coming fast. She ran her hands across the breadth of his shoulders, down his arms, savoring every line and curve of him. He caught her hands in his, lacing their fingers together. It was strikingly intimate, holding hands with him like this, feeling the warmth of his palm pressed flush against her own, their fingers knotted together. He raised their joined hands and kissed hers. Looking at their intertwined fingers, she blinked hard, unsure for a moment where she ended and he began. Breathless, she lifted her face to be kissed. She could kiss him forever, she thought, just sinking into the blaze he ignited in her.