CHAPTER 12
Cate
A s hard as I tried, I couldn’t get Joe out of my mind after our nondate date. I continued to believe that pursuing him—or, more accurately, letting him pursue me—was a bad idea in the long run. But after three nights of knowing he was right down the hall, wanting to see me and even putting sweet notes under my door, I could feel myself caving to his persistence, even asking myself what would it hurt to kiss him one time? After all, he was Joe Kingsley. It would be quite the notch in my belt. Guys did this sort of thing all the time. Why couldn’t I do the same? If I just played along with his antics, I could forever say that I had kissed Joe Kingsley, my preteen crush and an American icon.
I decided it was just too good to pass up, but that I needed to break up with Arlo first. I called him and cut right to the chase. To paraphrase, I told him that it had been a good run, but it wasn’t really working for me anymore. I blamed our schedules and busy travel and not living in the same city.
“Besides, we don’t have all that much in common. I don’t even know the rules of soccer,” I said, feeling a stab of guilt that I’d never gone to watch him play in person.
“Yeah. But at least I never had to worry you were a groupie,” he said in his cute Liverpool accent.
“Ha! That’s certainly true,” I said, smiling into the phone.
“So…do you think we can still be friends?” he asked. “Grab a pint when you’re back in town?”
“Of course,” I said, though I really couldn’t see a friendship continuing, especially given that we had better sex than we did conversation.
“Friends with benefits?” he said, clearly thinking along the same lines.
“We’ll see,” I said, on the fence. On the one hand, it was sort of the ideal setup. I could go do whatever I wanted with Joe, guilt-free, and still hang out with Arlo. On the other hand, I loved a good, clean break. Either way, I had successfully extricated myself from another relationship, and I felt the usual sense of relief that came with that.
As I said goodbye and hung up the phone, it crossed my mind to just call it a night and not bother with Joe. But his magnetic pull was apparently too great, because the next thing I knew, I was calling his room, then inviting him down to mine.
Moments later, he was standing in my doorway, grinning at me. His hair was messy, as if he’d been sleeping, and he was wearing khaki shorts, a faded T-shirt, and those white terry-cloth hotel slippers that I didn’t think anyone actually ever put on.
I smiled back at him—it was impossible not to—and told him to come on in, motioning toward the only chair in the room. He took a few steps forward, pausing to give me a kiss on the cheek—only one cheek this time. As I closed the door behind him, I noticed he was carrying a small bag with a fancy pastel logo. Maybe he’d picked up a box of chocolates in the gift shop, I thought, as that seemed like something out of his cliché flowers-and-poetry playbook.
“Cute slippers,” I said as he sat, putting the bag at his feet.
“Thanks. But be forewarned: don’t ever try to take them home with you. I made that mistake once.”
“You stole the slippers?” I said, mildly amused, as I sat on the side of my bed, facing him.
“No! I thought they were free—you know, like the shoe polish and the nail kit—but they charged me an arm and a leg for them.”
I laughed, then asked what he’d been up to for the past few days.
“Oh, you know,” he said, running his hand through his hair and messing it up even more. “Lots of napping…watching movies…I went on a few bike rides and did a little exploring and shopping.” He paused and gave me a shy smile—or at least a smile pretending to be shy—and added, “Mostly I was just hoping to hear from you.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, rolling my eyes and waving him off.
“It’s the truth,” he said, his eyebrows knitting earnestly together, “whether you believe it or not.”
I stared at him, deciding that I actually did believe him—which was dangerous. It was one thing to kiss him; it was another to start imagining that he might like me. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to stay in control. With that renewed resolve, I scooted back on the bed and leaned against the headboard, my legs stretched out straight and crossed at the ankles. I was wearing cashmere drawstring shorts and a matching tank, so I had lots of skin showing, and could feel his eyes on me. I knew exactly what I was doing—and the effect it was having.
Sure enough, he took a deep breath and said, “God, Cate…You look so good.”
I thanked him, then patted the spot next to me on the bed. “Would you rather come over here and talk?”
“I’d love to…. Can I take my slippers off first?” he said with a smile.
I laughed and said, “Please do.”
He kicked them off, then stood and came over to the bed, bringing his paper bag with him. “I got you a present,” he said, climbing up next to me, looking so proud of himself.
“You did, huh?” I said, sitting cross-legged as I turned to face him.
“Yep,” he said, handing it to me.
I reached inside and pulled out a flat, square box that felt too light to be candy. I gently shook it, listening to the rustling sound of tissue paper, and said, “What is it?”
“Open it,” he said, now beaming.
Feeling self-conscious, I removed the lid of the box and peeled back the tissue, finding the most beautiful cobalt blue and poppy red scarf, its design unmistakably Hermès.
“Oh, wow,” I said, running my hand over the silk, surprised by how lavish a gift it was. “It’s gorgeous.”
“You really like it?”
“Yes,” I said, picking it up by one corner and unfurling it in the air before laying it out flat on the bed. “I love it.”
“It’s vintage…from the sixties…. I found it in the coolest little store—that’s why it’s not in an orange box,” he said.
I smiled, resisting the urge to say, Yeah, I was pretty sure Joe Kingsley didn’t go for a knockoff.
“I’m not quite sure of your style yet, but it seemed like you,” he said, his voice soft.
My heart skipped a beat at his use of the word yet, and I told him again that I loved it. “I’ve always had a thing for scarves,” I added.
“Oh good,” he said. “And the color? I almost went with a black and white one because you seem to wear more neutral colors?”
I told him that was true, surprised that he’d noticed, but that I liked pops of color, especially when it came to accessories.
“Yes. Like your lipstick,” he said, staring at my mouth.
Butterflies filled my stomach as I gazed back down at the scarf, tracing the pattern with my finger before folding it diagonally in half, then putting it over my head. There were so many ways to wear a scarf—and I’d tried them all—but this time, I went with a seventies hippie style, tying two corners back at the nape of my neck and leaving the third free, my hair spilling down my back and shoulders.
“So chic,” he said, leaning back on his elbow and staring over at me.
I smiled, reaching up to unknot and restyle the scarf, now tying it under my chin.
“Oh, I love that look,” he said. “It’s like Grace Kelly…in a convertible cruising along the French Riviera.”
I smiled, thinking that it was also a signature Dottie Kingsley look, as he said, “You actually remind me of Grace Kelly.”
“What?” I said, laughing. “We look absolutely nothing alike.”
“I know. But the way you carry yourself,” he said. “You’re so…I don’t know…elegant.”
I resisted the urge to say something self-deprecating, having learned that this tactic gets you nowhere in life. Instead, I thanked him and slipped the scarf off my head, folding it neatly and returning it to the box.
A few seconds passed before he started to smirk at me. “So. Did you dump that dude yet?”
“That dude?”
“Yeah.”
“His name is Arlo,” I said, hesitating. “And yes. As a matter of fact, I did.”
“You did?” he said, sitting up, suddenly very alert. “When?”
“About thirty minutes ago,” I said, feeling bold. “Right before I called you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because you dig me?” he said with a laugh.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
He smiled and said, “But you do like me a little…. Right?”
“Yes. A little,” I said, then went out on another long limb. “Enough to kiss you. Once.”
“Just once?” Joe said.
“Yep.” I nodded. “One and done. You know—a ‘what happens in Paris stays in Paris’ type thing.”
“But what if I want to kiss you back in New York, too?” he said, leaning in closer, staring at my mouth again.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said, biting my lip.
He moved even closer, his face now inches from mine. I could see his chest rising and falling under his T-shirt as he reached over and touched my face, then cupped my cheek, before sliding his hand to the back of my neck. He pulled me closer to him as I inhaled a scent that I would later learn was Dior’s Eau Sauvage—the same cologne his father had worn.
Our foreheads touched first, then our noses, and as I closed my eyes, I could feel his warm breath on my face. One dizzying second later, his lips were grazing mine in the softest, lightest whisper of a kiss. It could barely even count as a kiss. But I wanted it to count. Because it was perfect.
The perfect first kiss.
No—the only kiss.
My heart racing, I pulled away and caught my breath and said, “There. One kiss. That’s all.”
He shook his head and said, “Just one more?”
I tried to say no, but I couldn’t. Instead, I nodded, in a complete daze, as he took me in his arms and lowered me to the bed and kissed me again and again and again, leaving absolutely no doubt in my mind that this wasn’t just a Paris thing.
—
Sure enough, when I returned to my apartment in New York three days later, there was a message from Joe on my answering machine. I couldn’t quite believe it as I listened to him ramble, telling me he missed me and “please call me back the second you come home. The very second.”
I smiled, hit by a wave of excitement. I’d been trying not to obsess. But I could feel myself starting to fall for him. Reminding myself that this was a really bad idea, I picked up the phone and called him anyway.
“Cate!” he shouted into the phone when he heard my voice. “It’s about time! When did you get back?”
I considered telling him I’d been home for a while but decided there was no point in playing games. Whatever was going to happen would happen, and it was probably better to just get the show on the road.
“Just now,” I said.
“As in—this very second?”
“Yes. You told me to call you the second I got back, didn’t you?” I said in a playful voice.
“Atta girl,” he said. “When can I see you?”
“When do you want to see me?”
“Now?”
I laughed and said, “How about tomorrow?”
“That would be awesome,” he said. “What should we do?”
“Something low-key,” I said, feeling exhausted and jet-lagged—but also hedging my bets.
“Okay. I could come to your place? We could rent a movie and order in?”
“Umm…I don’t know…. I have a roommate,” I said.
Elna was out of town, but I didn’t want him to come to my apartment regardless.
“She’s welcome to join us…you know, for a little while,” he said with a chuckle.
“I don’t know,” I said, waffling. “I kind of don’t want her to know I’m hanging out with you.”
“Why not?” he said. “She doesn’t like me?”
“She doesn’t know you,” I said. “But she doesn’t like the idea of you.”
“Why not?” he said, sounding a little hurt.
“I think you could guess the reasons.”
“Hmm…Well, do you like the idea of me?”
“The jury’s still out,” I said with a smile.
He laughed and said, “Damn. You really don’t sugarcoat anything, do you?”
“Nope,” I said. “What’s the point?”
“I agree. I like that.”
A few seconds passed before he said, “Okay…well, how about you come over to my place tomorrow? I’ll make you dinner.”
“You can cook?”
“Not really. But I can get takeout and transfer it to plates and pretend I made it.”
“Nah,” I said with a laugh. “Remember. There’s no need to fake anything with me.”
—
The following evening after work, I went home to shower and change before heading down to Joe’s. I was glad Elna was away, which meant I didn’t have to answer any questions about where I was going. As much as I confided in her, I wasn’t ready for that. When I got out of the shower, I cranked up my music, opened a bottle of Amstel Light, and blew my hair out, flat-ironing it pin-straight and parting it in the middle. Going for a feminine but laid-back feel, I put on a vintage silk Miu Miu dress with a brown and white floral print and nude slingbacks with low block Prada heels.
At that point, I was on autopilot and could have been getting ready for any date, but by the time I got into my taxi, I was keenly aware that I was headed to the apartment of Joe Kingsley, a man with the highest possible pedigree who was way, way out of my league. If not an absolute fact, it was a statement that 99.9 percent of the world would agree with—and as we got closer to his SoHo address, I could feel myself start to panic. What in the world was I thinking, anyway? How did I think this was going to end other than badly?
I told myself there was no point in second-guessing my decision—it would be too dramatic and weird to cancel last minute. Better to just view the whole thing as an experiment. See how far we could get before he realized what I knew to be true. Or maybe he already did know. It was suspicious—or at a minimum noteworthy—that Joe had yet to ask any real details about my family or educational background, simply accepting my vague and very misleading comments about “still finishing up my degree.” It was tempting to believe that those topics had simply slipped through the cracks, but I knew better. Guys like Joe always came out of the gate with that question: Where did you go to school? In most instances they meant college, though the boarding school types cared about high school, too. And if you went to a public school, you sure as shit better be from an upscale suburb. It was bizarrely consistent. I also knew those queries were usually just a ruse—disguised as casual conversation when they were really trying to discern my social status. In other words: Was I a working-class girl who had used modeling to pull myself up by my bootstraps? Or did I come from a “good family” who had insisted that I also go to college?
The fact that Joe hadn’t really pressed me on the subject meant one of three things: (1) I’d successfully misled him into making the wrong assumptions; (2) He knew the truth about me—on some level—and liked me anyway; or (3) He wasn’t analyzing any of that because all he really wanted was a fling. The last one seemed the most likely, I concluded as we turned onto a block that felt quintessentially SoHo—hip but a little grungy—with cobblestone streets and prewar warehouses converted to apartments. I paid my fare and got out of the cab, looking around, half expecting to see the paparazzi lurking in the shadows. But there was no sign that Joe—or anyone of import—lived in the gray building before me. There wasn’t even a doorman. I climbed the stairs, scanning the buzzers, looking for Joe’s name, somehow knowing that his wouldn’t be labeled.
I took a chance and hit the only unmarked apartment number, holding my breath, waiting. A few seconds later, Joe’s voice came back fuzzy over the intercom. “Hello?”
“Hi. It’s me,” I said, my heart starting to race.
“Hey! Come on in! Take the elevator to the fourth floor!” he said, buzzing me in.
I took another deep breath, reminding myself that I really had nothing to lose so long as I kept my expectations low, then opened the heavy front door. I made my way through the spartan, empty lobby, then took a small elevator up to the fourth floor. When the doors opened, Joe was standing right there, waiting for me with a huge smile. Thursday was at his side, wagging his tail and attempting to jump on me as Joe held him back and reprimanded him.
“It’s fine,” I said, petting him, remembering that day on the beach. “Thursday and I go way back.”
“I guess that’s true!” Joe laughed. He was looking as handsome as I’d ever seen him, dressed casually, wearing faded blue jeans, a cream Henley, and black and white Adidas sneakers, the laces loosely tied.
“So…hi,” he said with a cute little laugh, then gave me a big hug.
“Hi,” I said, hugging him back, inhaling his cologne, which already felt familiar.
We separated and he stared at me with a goofy grin. “You look amazing. Wow.”
“Thank you,” I said feeling shy, attempting to pet Thursday again. Joe intercepted my hand, then led me down the hall to his apartment. Though he’d mentioned living in a loft, I was still a little blown away by how dramatic and cavernous it was. With floor-to-ceiling steel-framed windows, exposed brick walls, and a completely open floor plan, the space was very cool, but also a bit cold, and I couldn’t decide whether I loved or hated it. As I walked the whole way into the room, putting my bag on his mammoth brown leather sectional, I decided that I wouldn’t want to live in a place like this—I preferred cozy spaces—but that it was nice to visit. Perfect for a one-to-several-night stand.
“What do you think?” Joe asked.
“It’s great,” I said, glancing at him, “for a bachelor pad.”
“Ouch,” he said. “Maybe you can help me spruce it up some? I need some more end tables and lamps and stuff.”
I smiled and said, “You don’t need my help.”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “You have great taste. And I want you to like it here.”
“You do, huh?” I said, raising my eyebrows, nonchalantly flirting. “Why’s that?”
“Because I like you,” he said. “And I want you to be comfortable here…so you keep coming back.”
Before I could respond, he put his arms around my waist and gave me a kiss. “I told you it wasn’t a ‘one and done,’ ” he whispered.
My heart racing again, I thought, Shit. You sure did.
“Okay. Now that that’s settled…are you hungry?”
“A little,” I said, thinking that I never really knew how to answer that question. Maybe it was a by-product of modeling for so many years—but I’d trained myself not to think about food—unless I was downright ravenous.
“Well, as you know, I can’t cook. But I do epic appetizers,” he said, gesturing over to his kitchen. “Wanna see?”
I nodded as we took a long stroll to the other side of the room, where he’d laid out a banquet-size platter. It was loaded with wheels of cheese and little rows of crackers and rolled-up meats and enough dried fruit to choke a horse.
“Impressive,” I said.
“Wait. Is that impressive as in impressive? Or impressive for a bachelor?”
I gazed down at the board, pretending to scrutinize his work, then said, “I’d say it’s impressive on an absolute basis.”
“Yesss,” he said, pumping his fist in the air like he’d just sunk the winning shot of a basketball game. “Now. Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure,” I said, leaning on the counter.
“Beer? Wine? Or I can make you a cocktail? My bartending skills are legit, too.”
I smiled and told him that I’d love a glass of wine.
“Red or white?”
“Whatever’s open.”
He shook his head and said, “Nope. I’m opening one for you. For us. Please choose.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “I’d love a glass of red, please.”
Joe gave me a brisk bartender’s nod as he rubbed his palms together, then walked over to a small built-in wine refrigerator, scanning the bottles and selecting one from the bottom row. I watched as he used an old-school corkscrew to open the bottle, took two stemmed glasses from a cabinet, and carefully poured our glasses, wiping the side of the bottle with a dish towel. He returned to the island to hand me the slightly fuller glass, standing at the corner of the counter, perpendicular to me.
I thanked him as he raised his glass in the air and looked in my eyes. “To our third date.”
“But who’s counting?” I said, clinking my glass against his.
“I am,” he said as we both took a sip. “I’m sentimental like that.”
“Are you?”
“Well,” he said. “About things that matter.”
I bit my lip, feeling myself start to blush and wishing my fair skin didn’t so easily give me away.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Paris,” Joe said.
My stomach fluttered, but I played it cool. “Yes,” I said. “Paris was nice.”
“You’re nice,” he said, putting his hand over mine, which was resting on the counter, next to my glass.
“Actually, I’m not all that nice,” I said, trying not to smile.
He stared at me a beat, then said, “You know who you remind me of?”
“Uh-oh. Do I want to know?”
“Okay. This is kind of random…but that woman Billy Joel sings about—”
“The waitress who practices politics while the businessman slowly gets stoned?” I laughed.
He smiled and said, “No. ‘She’s Always a Woman.’ ”
I tried to remember the lyrics to that song, and as some of the more colorful lines came to me, I said, “Wait. The one about the cruel, lying woman who will cut you and laugh while you’re bleeding?”
He smiled and said, “Not that part. I was thinking more of how you are in such control.” He stared at me stone-faced for several seconds before softly singing: Ohhh, she takes care of herself, she can wait if she wants.
I played along. “You got me. Both of those things are true,” I said.
“You really are a mystery,” he said.
I rolled my eyes and said, “No, I’m really not.”
“Okay, then tell me some things,” he said. “About you.”
I felt myself tensing up a little, as I said, “What do you want to know?”
He took a deep breath, then exhaled even harder, appearing deep in thought. “Okay,” he said. “Who do you love most in the world?”
I laughed and said, “That’s a strange question.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” I said. “What kind of love are we talking here?”
“Love. In its purest form.”
“I have no idea how to answer that—”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t…. Who do you love the most?”
“Okay. Well, my grandmother is first. Hands down. Second is my mother,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Third is my friend Berry. Fourth is my cousin Peter. Fifth is my uncle Mark—Peter’s dad.” He gave me a smug smile and said, “Easy.”
“Oh my God,” I said, laughing. “That’s so weird.”
“What’s weird about it?”
“That you can rank everyone in your life—with no hesitation whatsoever…. Who does that?”
“I do,” he said.
“Okay. Well, tell me this,” I said, feeling bold. “Where did your last girlfriend fit into that equation?”
“Then or now, in real time?”
Intrigued that she might still be in the mix, I said now.
“I don’t know…pretty far down. Maybe somewhere in the twenties or thirties?”
I laughed, thinking that I couldn’t name thirty people I loved—or even liked a lot.
“So, you’re still friends?” I said.
“Sort of…We don’t talk…but I guess I still consider her a friend.”
“What’s she up to?”
“She’s engaged,” he said, shrugging. “Teaching in Brooklyn.”
Making a mental note to ask Curtis if he knew anything about Margaret’s fiancé, I nodded and said, “Okay. What about then? When you were together?”
“Hmm. That’s a tough question,” Joe said, staring into the distance for a few seconds before looking back at me. “At her peak, she was probably tied with Uncle Mark.”
“She never got higher than tied for fifth?” I said, laughing. “Ouch.”
Joe laughed, then said, “Hold up. Wait a sec! I see what you’re doing here. You flipped this shit around—you got me talking about myself—”
I shrugged, gave him a half smile, and said, “Sorry that I can’t rank everyone in my life.”
“Okay, I’ll make it easier for you. Who’s your best friend? Can you answer that?”
“Elna,” I said.
“Is she the roommate who doesn’t like me?”
“The idea of you,” I said. “And yes.”
“Okay. And who’s next?”
“I don’t know. Probably Curtis—the guy you met on the beach, the day you got my number and then never called—”
“Jeez!” he said, laughing. “Will you ever let me live that down?”
“Probably not,” I said. “And third would be Wendy. A high-school friend.”
“What’s Wendy like?”
I shrugged and said, “Oh, I don’t know…she’s a lot of fun, outgoing…a little loud. She was the head of the cheerleading team in high school. That type.”
Joe nodded and asked whether I had been a cheerleader, too.
“What do you think?” I asked, poker-faced.
“Well…you were a model…sooo…”
“Not the same at all,” I said. “Models don’t have to be cheerful…. Elna isn’t cheerful. Nor am I.”
“So Elna’s a model?”
I nodded.
“That’s how you met?”
I nodded again.
“And what about Wendy? What does she do?”
“She’s a stay-at-home mom,” I said, thinking that I could never quite decide whether Wendy’s life sounded boring or pleasant. It depended on the day.
“Do you like her husband?”
I shrugged and said he was fine. “He’s a lawyer like her dad. Sort of vanilla. Nice enough.”
He smiled and said, “Am I vanilla?”
I thought for a second, then said, “No. You’re sweet…but not vanilla.”
He smiled, then pulled me into his arms and gave me a very nonvanilla kiss.
—
A couple hours later, after we’d snacked on Joe’s cheese board, polished off the bottle of wine, and made out on the sofa, he took me back to his dimly lit bedroom and laid me across his bed and kissed me some more. I had a good buzz going but was still perfectly clear-eyed and very certain of how I wanted the night to end. Having sex with Joe felt inevitable—a foregone conclusion. It was going to be now or later, so it might as well be now.
With that decision made, I took charge, standing up, reaching back to unfasten the hook-and-eye closure of my dress, then shimmying out of it. The streetlights softly illuminated his room, and I could feel him watching me in my matching lace underwear as I pulled back the covers and crawled into his bed between the crispest, coolest sheets.
When I finally met his gaze, I saw a look on his face that went beyond lust and approached awe. It had the effect of making me feel more brazen.
“My God, Cate. You’re gorgeous,” he said, yet he didn’t make a move. He just lay there on top of the covers, frozen on his side, restrained and respectful.
“Come here,” I said, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Hmm?”
“Take your clothes off and come here,” I said more explicitly, lifting the covers, showing him my body, tempting him.
“Are you sure I should do that?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Very sure.”
Joe took a few deep breaths, then sat up and did what I asked. Now it was my turn to watch as he undressed. As a model, I’d been around plenty of good-looking men with beautiful bodies—and Arlo’s was as rock hard and chiseled as any of them—but something about Joe’s body was different. Better. Maybe it was the hair on his chest—which I loved. Maybe it was the knowledge that it was Joe. I thought of that poster on my wall, suddenly remembering a moment that I’d either forgotten or repressed. My first orgasm happened while I stared up at it, fantasizing that it was Joe who was touching me. I had no idea what I was doing—and had only read about sex in Judy Blume’s novel Forever, which didn’t cover the nitty-gritty of orgasms. But I figured it out that night. For a second, the memory embarrassed me. But then, a switch flipped in the other direction, and I felt even more turned on. Powerful, even.
A moment later, wearing only boxers, Joe had found me under the covers. He lay beside me, kissing me even more hungrily than he had in Paris or on his sofa earlier, pausing only to reach around and unhook my bra, pulling it off me, then tossing it to the side of the bed. I wrapped my arms back around him and sighed, as we lay skin to skin for the first time. It crossed my mind that this might be enough for now—it felt that good—but the thought didn’t last long, as his hands started moving all over my body, everywhere he could reach. That went on for a while until he rolled me over and kissed my breasts and stomach. He tried to move his face lower, but I stopped him, grabbing his shoulders, telling him to come back to me. When he did, I slid my hands down his back, dipping them past the elastic waistband of his boxers. “Take these off, too,” I whispered. “Please.”
He groaned a little in response but obliged my request. When his boxers were off, I laid my cheek on his chest, gazing down at him—all of him—then touched him for the first time. As I listened to his breathing, I stroked him as softly as I could, watching him grow even harder.
“God, Cate,” he said with a low moan.
I slid my thong off, then took his hand and guided it down between my legs.
“Damn,” he said, his breathing now heavy. “You’re so wet.”
“You made me this way,” I whispered as his fingers moved in circles in the exact right place, which only I had ever been able to find.
Then I pulled him back on top of me, kissing his neck, arching my back, and spreading my legs. “I want you,” I said.
“Oh, my God, I know,” he groaned.
“I mean it. Right now. I want you—”
“Are you sure—” he said, staring into my eyes.
“Very sure,” I said, my heart pounding.
Looking as nervous as I felt, he nodded, then reached over to open the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out a condom. He quickly put it on, his hands trembling.
I spread my legs a little more, then reached down to slowly guide him inside me. Like our first kiss, everything felt like slow motion. His touch was light and lingering and impossibly good. He teased me for a long time. Then, when I couldn’t stand it another second, I wrapped my legs around him and dug my fingers into his back and pulled him all the way inside me. And then I knew that there was absolutely, positively no turning back.