“You… do you have a way of getting home?”
An image flashes through my mind of me sitting in the backseat of his car while he and his date drive me home. Like a little kid. I wonder if he’ll put me in a booster seat.
“I’m gonna take an Uber.” It comes out a little slurry. He puts his hand on my shoulder this time.
“No. You’re not. I’ll drive you. There’s no way you’re getting into some strange person’s car. It’s not safe.” He’s authoritative, just like he is at work when he’s telling an executive exactly what he needs for a story. Of course, the next place my mind goes is thinking he’s probably authoritative in the bedroom too, commanding and forceful.
Stay on task.
“Why is that safer? Aren’t you here too?” I’m trying to ask if he’s okay to drive. The words make sense to me, but I know it comes out sounding wrong.
“Yes, I am here.” He seems amused and I like the way the corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles. And I can’t keep my mind out of the gutter, so it’s telling me all kinds of things it would like me to do with him right now. Considering my propensity for blurting things out, I know I’m only one brain fart away from telling him I want to ride him all night long like an urban cowgirl breaking a stallion. I make a concerted effort to say only what’s necessary.
“Okay, fine. But I don’t want you to mistake me being agreeable right now for being agreeable generally.”
Again, not sure I’m making sense.
“Noted. I’ll try not to see you as ever being agreeable after tonight.” He lets out a low, quiet laugh and I realize I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh before.
At the same time, I’m not sure he’s really getting my point. And I’m too drunk to let anything lie. “I’m just saying, I’m letting you drive me home, but I don’t want you to confuse that with me liking you.”
Now he’s laughing more. “Thank you for clarifying.”
I nod and look at him, marveling once again at how great-looking he is. I know symmetry is a thing when it comes to why people are attractive, and he definitely has everything in the right place. The jaw, the hint of stubble, the pale eyes, the cheekbones. I don’t know what comes over me, but I find myself reaching up to touch his face. I want to feel the line of his jaw and once I do, I want to feel more.
He’s looking at me like it’s maybe a problem, but he isn’t moving away. So I bring my other hand up to the side of his face and take a step closer, pulling him in toward me. Just for a minute. I just need to know what it feels like to kiss him. Then I’ll stop.
I’m wearing flat shoes and he’s tall, so I can’t get any closer unless he bends to meet me halfway. We’re stuck in limbo, with my hands on either side of his face, lips parted suggestively until he makes a move. The feminist in me knows it’s unevolved for me to wait for him, especially when I’m the one with wants and needs right now. But I’m height-challenged, which threatens to derail my entire poorly-conceived idea.
Jack meets my gaze, his eyes questioning. I don’t want to explain. He starts to speak but presses his lips together instead. Then he brings them to mine like he’s resigned to giving me what I want. The way you’d placate a kid who’s pestering for attention. But there’s nothing G-rated about Jack’s intensity.
He slowly drags his lips over mine, claiming every inch and sinking deeper until I actually feel myself swoon. Then he pulls back, brushing my chin with soft kiss. It’s feathery and dreamy and suddenly I’m melting.
For all his daily agita, apparently he’s been hiding a softer side. It’s a problem. He’s gentle when I want to be overwhelmed. This has been the day from hell and now I’m semi-drunk and all I know is that I need to do something that will make me feel better, even if doing it—or him—ends up feeling like a mistake in the morning.
I press my lips harder into his, wanting the lust and sensation to wipe away my ability to think about anything else. But he pulls back. “This is not a good idea,” he says.
I nod vigorously. “It’s a very good idea.”
He tilts his head to look at me and uses both hands to grasp my shoulders and hold me at a distance. “You’re not thinking clearly. I don’t… I can’t… take advantage of that.”
“Stop trying to be a nice guy. You’re confusing me.”
“You want me to be a jerk?” he asks, wary.
“I want you to make me forget about my shitty day.”
He looks at me and I see a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. Or maybe he thinks I’m pathetic. It could be that kind of look. I’m not sure.
Then his lips are on mine with all the fire and heat I’ve seen him bring to riling up a powerful CEO. It feels so good to lose myself in the sensation of his mouth and the faint taste of alcohol on his tongue. He’s being much more agreeable now, curling one hand around the back of my neck and kissing me with the kind of intensity I crave before lightly sucking on my lower lip. It’s still way sweeter and gentler than what I’m after, but I’m not about to complain.
He leisurely plants hot kisses across my cheek and curls my hair behind my ear with his finger so he can kiss the side of my neck. I feel breathless and lightheaded. For the first time, I think there’s a chance I can forget how mortifying it was to faceplant so royally at work.
“It’s helping. I’m starting to forget,” I tell him, not sure what I’m even saying or if it matters.
“Good.” His tongue flicks across my bottom lip. I shudder and part my lips because I want more. He obliges, his tongue circling mine so slowly that it almost feels like sex. I’ve never been kissed this way before and it’s making me dizzy.
He’s also so sweet that I almost have to pinch myself to believe this is the same hot but irritating guy I know from work. His hands are gentle, tangling in my hair. It’s not anything like the hurried, angry fuck I have in mind. He’s kissing me like we have all the time in the world.
It’s nice but right now I don’t want nice.
There’s a bathroom behind me that’s currently empty and I intend to make good use of it. It’ll be quick, but it has to make me feel better than I do right now. I take his hand and motion for him to follow me, pulling the door open. “Come.”
He gets the drift of what I’m after and he looks downright frightened. “Hold on. Linden, we can’t do that. At least, not here…” He takes my hand off the doorknob and the door closes with an uncomfortable thud.
And just like that, I start to return to my senses.
Oh my God. What am I doing?
Then the mortification starts creeping in. As if he didn’t have a low enough opinion of me already—no-talent, green reporter—I’ve just added bar slut to the mix. My mind is all over the place, but abject humiliation is the key emotion at the moment. I can’t even look at him. “Wow, I didn’t think it was possible, but now I actually feel a little bit worse.”
He guides my face, so I have to look at him. “Hey. Don’t do that to yourself. Like I said earlier, we’ve all been there. And… we’ve all been here.”
“I can’t imagine that’s true for you.”