mercurial wasn’t that off the mark. With his tongue darting into my mouth, I realize I don’t much care at the moment.
I lean into him a bit more and use my tongue to explore him a bit. No, his canines don’t feel longer than a human’s. I hadn’t noticed long canines when I looked at him, but I do like to test my hypotheses.
His right hand starts to slide down my back, and then all thoughts of science are gone.
When he pulls back, I fight the desire to say Wow out loud. It must be on my face because he is now grinning like a cat who got his mouse. “Will you come back for drinks? I purchased more Dalwhinnie today. Thirty-six year.”
Ugh, I’m not completely over my hangover. “No…” I start to groan, and he looks a little deflated. “I mean no alcohol. But perhaps something like tea? I’d very much like tea.”
His smile returns. “I have that, too.”
I start to walk around him to the driver’s side. “I’ll drive this time.” I completely ignore the warning bells my brain starts to ring. For once, I’m letting my heart dictate. Or maybe I’m just really tired. Or stupid. Whatever.
* * *
We get out of the car and rush into his house. As soon as the door closes, we’re kissing and working buttons, zippers, and clasps so our clothes are falling off as we make our way across the living room. I don’t know where the bedroom is, but Jorge starts to steer me toward…the kitchen?
“Chloe!” And then louder. “Chloe! You’re going to miss the driveway.”
“Oh.” I come out of my daydream and see the driveway going by. I consider swerving, but we are on a dirt road, so I just mutter “Oh shit” and execute a three-point turn.
“Maybe I should have driven after all,” Jorge teases.
If I wasn’t consumed by the demands of driving, I’d be looking at him. I imagine I’d see his gorgeous smile, a sweetly sly look in his eyes, the corners crinkled to show his future laugh lines. I find myself taking it for granted that I’ll be around to see those laugh lines show up.
Get a grip, Chlo. But my heart disagrees with that advice. Unless, of course, it was to grip something else…
“Ha, ha. I’ll still get us there.” I’m not going to mention why I was distracted. Let him think I just didn’t quite remember where the driveway was.
Once we’re settled in said driveway, the walk to the house is less rushed than in my daydream, and when we enter I feel a bit awkward.
Jorge again turns on one of the lamps in his sparse living room and gestures for me to take a seat. “I’ll go make the tea.”
Instead of sitting, I follow him to the kitchen. “Perhaps I can help.” Sitting on the couch by myself is not an option. I’m entirely too riled up, in too many ways, for that.
He hands me a stainless steel teakettle when I follow him in. “Here, you can get the water started then.”
I fill the kettle with tap water and set it on the stove to heat. He has an ancient looking gas stove, but the burner still lights right up. Teakettle settled, I turn around and watch Jorge measuring out some loose leaf tea into a paper filter bag. “What kind are you making?”
“Darjeeling. Is that OK?”
“Yes. I like Darjeeling. What season?”
“Quite the beverage connoisseur, I see.” I hope that piercing tone is impressed. “It’s fall.”
“Oh. I prefer the spring.”
“Should I make something else then?” He sounds both annoyed and a little anxious not to disappoint.
I am realizing he is about as touchy as my Sashi—or maybe me—and that makes me grin inside.
I curse my uncensored bluntness. “No, I didn’t mean I don’t like it. It’s just not my personal preference. Any Darjeeling is good. Besides, based on your scotch choice, I assume you have nothing but the best-quality tea.” I grin at him and he returns it.
“Of course.” He finishes prepping the tea bag and places it in a Brown Betty pot, then turns to me. “Do you take cream or sugar?”
“Yes,
I lean into him a bit more and use my tongue to explore him a bit. No, his canines don’t feel longer than a human’s. I hadn’t noticed long canines when I looked at him, but I do like to test my hypotheses.
His right hand starts to slide down my back, and then all thoughts of science are gone.
When he pulls back, I fight the desire to say Wow out loud. It must be on my face because he is now grinning like a cat who got his mouse. “Will you come back for drinks? I purchased more Dalwhinnie today. Thirty-six year.”
Ugh, I’m not completely over my hangover. “No…” I start to groan, and he looks a little deflated. “I mean no alcohol. But perhaps something like tea? I’d very much like tea.”
His smile returns. “I have that, too.”
I start to walk around him to the driver’s side. “I’ll drive this time.” I completely ignore the warning bells my brain starts to ring. For once, I’m letting my heart dictate. Or maybe I’m just really tired. Or stupid. Whatever.
* * *
We get out of the car and rush into his house. As soon as the door closes, we’re kissing and working buttons, zippers, and clasps so our clothes are falling off as we make our way across the living room. I don’t know where the bedroom is, but Jorge starts to steer me toward…the kitchen?
“Chloe!” And then louder. “Chloe! You’re going to miss the driveway.”
“Oh.” I come out of my daydream and see the driveway going by. I consider swerving, but we are on a dirt road, so I just mutter “Oh shit” and execute a three-point turn.
“Maybe I should have driven after all,” Jorge teases.
If I wasn’t consumed by the demands of driving, I’d be looking at him. I imagine I’d see his gorgeous smile, a sweetly sly look in his eyes, the corners crinkled to show his future laugh lines. I find myself taking it for granted that I’ll be around to see those laugh lines show up.
Get a grip, Chlo. But my heart disagrees with that advice. Unless, of course, it was to grip something else…
“Ha, ha. I’ll still get us there.” I’m not going to mention why I was distracted. Let him think I just didn’t quite remember where the driveway was.
Once we’re settled in said driveway, the walk to the house is less rushed than in my daydream, and when we enter I feel a bit awkward.
Jorge again turns on one of the lamps in his sparse living room and gestures for me to take a seat. “I’ll go make the tea.”
Instead of sitting, I follow him to the kitchen. “Perhaps I can help.” Sitting on the couch by myself is not an option. I’m entirely too riled up, in too many ways, for that.
He hands me a stainless steel teakettle when I follow him in. “Here, you can get the water started then.”
I fill the kettle with tap water and set it on the stove to heat. He has an ancient looking gas stove, but the burner still lights right up. Teakettle settled, I turn around and watch Jorge measuring out some loose leaf tea into a paper filter bag. “What kind are you making?”
“Darjeeling. Is that OK?”
“Yes. I like Darjeeling. What season?”
“Quite the beverage connoisseur, I see.” I hope that piercing tone is impressed. “It’s fall.”
“Oh. I prefer the spring.”
“Should I make something else then?” He sounds both annoyed and a little anxious not to disappoint.
I am realizing he is about as touchy as my Sashi—or maybe me—and that makes me grin inside.
I curse my uncensored bluntness. “No, I didn’t mean I don’t like it. It’s just not my personal preference. Any Darjeeling is good. Besides, based on your scotch choice, I assume you have nothing but the best-quality tea.” I grin at him and he returns it.
“Of course.” He finishes prepping the tea bag and places it in a Brown Betty pot, then turns to me. “Do you take cream or sugar?”
“Yes,
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