I nod and place my hand in his, and as our fingers entwine, I’m shaken once more because I can’t remember the last time I simply held someone’s hand. He squeezes his fingers briefly around mine as if he knows what I’m thinking.
“I made us reservations,” he says.
We drive to a new restaurant not far from my apartment. It’s an intimate bistro, and nothing like anything I went to when I was working for Mike.
In the last five months, I’ve gradually gotten over the fear that everyone who looks at me knows what I once did for a living. I remind myself I’m not the same person I was then and starting over means starting over.
Hardest to take are the looks men give me, though those are different now as well. Harris pulls out my chair when we’re shown to our table, and I sit down with a sigh.
He raises an eyebrow as he takes his own seat. “Are you okay?”
I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Yes, first date jitters.”
“We’ve had a few meals together. This one just happens to be out in public.”
“Not just first date with you. First date ever.” I frown. “Well, if you don’t count Mike, and I don’t.”
His eyes dim a bit at the mention of Mike, and I could slap myself for bringing his name up. I try to think of something — anything — to say to move the conversation in a different direction, but Harris beats me to it.
“Green is definitely your color. You look lovely tonight.”
I feel my cheeks heat, and I dip my head. Holy shit. I just blushed. And I’m lovely. He thinks I’m lovely. I wouldn’t have had the same reaction if he’d called me beautiful. Lots of men have called me beautiful, but he’s the first to say I’m lovely.
“And the flush on your cheeks is charming,” he says.
I look up. “Thank you.”
The conversation could have gotten very uncomfortable after that, but he picks up the menu. “I have no idea what I want. What are you in the mood for?”
Living on my own and doing work I want to do has completely changed my outlook on things. I no longer fear sharing my opinion or speaking up about what I want. And as I’ve moved further and further away from the me of years past, I’ve learned I like the me I’m becoming.
I pick up my menu and scan it. “Know what I’d really like?”
“What?”
“A huge burger with lots of cheese and pickles and mayo. French fries. And any soda that’s not diet.”
He laughs, and I forgot how his laugh made my insides warm. “I think that might be last thing I expected you to eat.”
“How about you? What’s your favorite thing to eat?”
He looks back over the menu. “Club sandwich. Extra bacon, cooked to where it’s almost burnt. Honey mustard to dip it in. French fries with pepper and a beer.”
I wrinkle my nose at the mention of beer.
“You don’t drink. I noticed that.” He places the menu down and folds his hands on top.
“I did at one time, but then I didn’t. I found that while the alcohol deadens the pain, it messes with your mind too much. Or at least it did mine.”
“Why not a diet soda?”
“I don’t like artificial sweeteners.”
The waitress stops by to take our orders, and after she writes down my burger and his sandwich, she steps back. “You look familiar,” she says to Harris.
Harris had been in the news shortly after rescuing me. He wasn’t one to like being the center of attention, and he’d hated it.
“I just have one of those faces,” he says.
“The papers said you were rescuing a woman from a trafficker,” she replies, like he didn’t say anything.
“I read that story, too.” He glances at me. To make sure I’m alright?
“That poor woman. I hope she’s doing okay.”
“Me, too,” he says and coughs.
The cough reminds her of where she’s at and what she should be doing. “I’ll go put this order in.”
He leans back in his seat, exhaling deeply.
“You’re a hero,” I tease.
“Nah. Just doing my job.”
“I think they’re one and the same.”
Our conversation over dinner is light and easy. Harris is easy to talk with and quick to joke and smile. It doesn’t take long before I don’t feel nervous at all. We finish eating, but we’re still talking. He tells me about growing up in foster care, and I tell him stories from my childhood in the South.
He asks why I went to work at a pet store when I’d mentioned before I wanted to work in a bookstore, and in a soft voice, I share what happened with Mike and the books. And, I tell him that working around animals was a close second to owning one.
We arrive back at my apartment hours later, and my heart is racing as we walk up to my door. I’m not sure how to end the date. I don’t want him to leave just yet.
I don’t hesitate before saying, “Will you come inside?”
I can see he’s conflicted about how to answer, and my heart plummets.
“I want to,” he finally says. “But I think tonight’s not the time.”
I know my face shows my disappointment, but I feel a bit better when he's asks if he can take me to dinner tomorrow night.
“Really?” I ask, and at his nod I say, “Yes.”
He leans his head toward mine, and my lips are hungry for his. I remember their taste and the way I felt when they touched mine. But all he does is lightly brush my cheek. I groan, and his lips tickle my cheek as he smiles.
“Believe me,” he says in my ear. “I feel it too, but I want you to burn for me. To have you so needy that the merest hint of my touch sets you on fire.”
“I’m there,” I beg.
“Not yet. But soon.”
The next evening, he brings a picnic and we eat outside at a nearby park. We sit on a bench for an hour afterwards watching people. It’s strange and odd and wonderful and fun, this sitting around and talking. I tell him I want to one day be in a position to help other women escape the sex market. He tells me I’m well on my way.
I’m fairly certain he’ll kiss me after the picnic date, but he once again only brushes my cheek. I run my hand down his arm and he just whispers, “Soon.”
I decide to switch things up, so on Monday I call him and ask him if he would like to come to my place for dinner on Wednesday. I can tell I’ve caught him off guard, but he agrees.
It’s when I’m bustling around Wednesday evening, twenty minutes before he shows up, trying to make everything perfect that I realize this might have been his plan the entire time. I have never invited a man to my apartment for anything. Sure, Mike came by, but he owned the place. And yes, I asked Harris over when I was in the hotel and he stopped by to pick me up, but it’s not the same.
Was that why he hesitated? Does he know how big of a step this is for me and wants to make sure I’m ready? I wear something causal: jeans and a tank top. I’m not going to seduce him. He apparently has this whole thing well planned out and I’m going to let him lead.
But when he rings the doorbell and I let him in, there’s something different about him. He’s all heat and muscle, and the look in his eyes when he sees me is damn near flammable.
We sit down and eat the lasagna I prepared earlier in the day. Harris is charming as always, making me laugh at Munchkin’s antics. He is somewhat reserved, though, like he’s studying me. Watching for something.
“Thank you for inviting me over tonight,” he says, when we’re finished and the dishes are in the dishwasher.
“I wanted you to see me in my element. I saw you in yours.”
“I’m not sure that completely counted, since we were trying to outsmart people the entire time.”
I shake my head. “Those nights we’d go out in your backyard. That was the real you.”
“Yes.”
“I like the real you.”
“The real me likes you, too.”
“That night when we were
out there, those things you said? You meant them?” I don’t specify which things.
His eyes grow dark. “Yes, I meant every word.”
“When you kissed me,” I say, ready to talk about it that time in his backyard. “It was like nothing I ever felt before.”
“For me, too.” He takes a step closer to me.
I swallow. This is hard. This isn't me being paid or forced or in any way coerced. It’s me as a woman and the woman I am is so very unsure about herself. “Will you kiss me again?”
“Now?”
I nod. “Please.”
He takes two more steps, and then he’s in front of me. Slowly, he lifts one hand to cup the side of my face, and I close my eyes when his thumb brushes my cheekbone.
Gently, so gently, I barely feel them, his lips sweep across my own in a soft kiss. I clutch his forearms. I want more.
“Please,” I whisper, but he doesn’t move. “Caden.”
He takes a step back and brushes his thumb along the line of my lips. I part them and tease his fingertip with my tongue.
“I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, or anything that doesn’t feel good.” His eyes are dark, and the longing in them takes my breath away. “I have to be honest: I’m scared as hell to do anything physical with you. I don’t want to hurt you, and I want it to be good for you.”
His honesty endears him to me even more “I’m scared, too. I keep thinking: what if I’m broken that way? What if I can’t enjoy it?”
“Do you enjoy it when I kiss you?”
I decide to throw the gauntlet down. “I don’t know; you only really kissed me that once.”
His eyes flash with something, and he gives me a teasing smile before he frames my face with his hands. “Let’s remedy that, why don’t we?”
I only have time to nod before his mouth is over mine and oh my God yes, it is the same. I moan and pull him closer. It’s an invitation he accepts, and his hands trail downward, pulling me tight against him.
His tongue teases my lips open, and I’m consumed and engulfed by all that is him and the only thing that doesn’t feel good is the ache of needing more. I tuck my hand into the back of his waistband so my fingers rest right above his ass.
He pulls back. “Did that feel good?”
I want to whine that he stopped. “Yes. Very.”
“Do you want to stop there or keep going?”
I make sure I’m looking him straight in the eye when I say, “I want to go further.” And then to prove it, I take his hand and l lead him to my bedroom. I reach the middle of the room and turn to face him. “I’ve never in my entire life invited a man to my bedroom. You’re the first.”
He pulls me into his arms for another kiss. I’m beginning to think I could live on his kisses. Then he moves his lips to my neck, where he nips the skin, and I shiver.
“That good?” he asks.
“Very.”
His hands slip down to my shirt. “Can I see you?”
I draw the shirt over my head, and I could bask in the appreciation in his look. I thought I’d feel awkward, like I did when I stripped in front of him while we were on the video call, but I don’t. His look empowers me, makes me strong, and I want even more. “Your turn.”
“I’m not near as gorgeous as you.” But he pulls his shirt off anyway.
I suck in a breath at what is hidden under his clothes. There are round scars on his upper arms and one ragged line above his heart. “What happened to you? Who did this?” I ask in a small voice.
“Perils of living in foster care.”
I point to one of the round scars. “Is that a cigarette burn?”
“It was.”
“How could anyone do this to you?” I run a finger around the puckered skin on his arm.
“They were bigger than me.”
“You’re just like me, except you have scars on the outside and mine are all inside.”
“Our pasts are what brought us both here tonight.” He shakes his head. “Because of that, I can’t find it in me to regret any of it.”
I lower my head to his arm and kiss the scars there. “I knew you were beautiful beneath your clothes.”
He chuckles. “Beautiful?”
I palm my hands over his chest and feel the strong beating of his heart. “Every inch of you is beautiful. Inside and out. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
He leans his head down and kisses me again, a bit more forcefully this time, and he walks me backward to the bed. I’m scared and excited and giddy and ready for more and wanting to stay in this moment forever. My knees hit the bed, and I sit down.
Harris drops to his knees and keeping his eyes on mine, unbuttons my jeans. I lift up so he can take them down, and when they’re off, he pulls me to the edge of the bed, so I’m open and exposed to him. I still have my panties on, but I know he can see how wet I am for him.
He places kisses on my upper thigh while at the same time, teasing that sensitive area on on the back of my knee. His nips my skin closer and closer to where I ache for him.
“Are you burning for me yet?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, surprised I’m still able to form words.
“I’d like to make you come like this.”
There have only been a few men who have attempted that, and I always ended up faking my pleasure. Of course, I’m an expert at faking. But I don’t want to fake with Harris.
“You’re tensing up,” he says. “Is this okay?”
“Yes, I’m just...” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to be broken.”
He places one last kiss on my kneecap, and then he joins me on the bed and pats a pillow. “Come up here.”
I join him, aware as I do of the storm brewing in his eyes. It’s a look of restrained longing and seeing it reignites my own. He props himself up on one elbow and his fingers circle my nipple.
“I’m going to explore every inch of you. We’re both going to discover what turns you on.” He runs his fingertip across my pebbled skin. “Because you are many, many things, but broken isn’t one of them.”
He starts slowly, touching and teasing me with light strokes everywhere. He’s not in any hurry, and I feel my apprehension fade away, only to be replaced with a growing need. He explores my arms and my legs and other places I never thought of as sexy.
“Oh, yes,” he says when he finds at spot that makes me thrash my head. “That spot makes you feel it deep inside doesn’t it?”
It’s only the crook of my elbow, but all he has to do is lick it and I almost come undone. “Yes.”
“Wonder what would happen if I bit it?”
I can’t even make a word when he does. I mumble something that makes no sense. He lifts his head and comes back up to kiss me and then settles into place at my side. I’m a quivering mess of desire and I’m going to explode when he touches me where I most want him to.
He drags one finger down my chest, across my belly, and I start to think Please don’t stop, please don’t stop, please don’t stop because I think I know where he’s going. The finger stops when it reaches my panties.
“I need you to take them off if you want me to continue,” he says. “I think we’ve proven that you’re not broken, and we don't have to go any further if you don’t want to.”
I take the panties off in less than three seconds.
He murmurs his approval and gets back into position by my side, his one hand still resting on my belly.