And there I go, in my imagination. Time slows, and the bar disappears, and it’s just Chris and me. He’s taken me out for coffee, or dinner, or a movie. Or better yet – a round of Candyland at the kitchen table. We could even invent our own rules that involve kissing every time you have to go back a few spaces.
Or more.
Kissing that leads to so much more. I close my eyes, and picture a kiss that starts sweet and soft and slow. Then, his hands cup my face as if he’s claiming me, saying you’re mine with his lips and his hands and the way he draws me in close, his thumb tracing a line along my jaw. It’s such a small gesture, but such a poetically possessive one and I arch my back, inviting more. In one swift move, he pulls my chair to him, sliding me between the V of his legs. His fingers thread their way into my hair, and I lean into his hands, reveling in the way they feel against the back of my head, as if he’s holding me in the exact way he wants me, in the exact way I want to be held. My breaths grow louder as he kisses me hard, craving the taste of my lips crushed against his. A groan escapes him, telling me he doesn’t want to stop; he only wants more of me.
He breaks the kiss, stands, and reaches for my hips, quickly pulling me up. I sway, still lightheaded and probably will be days. But he steadies me with one hand on my waist, and he looks at me with such dark desire in his eyes, with a fierce kind of hunger as if he has to have me, touch me, be with me.
One look like that and I am his for the asking. For the taking. My heart pounds harder and my pulse speeds.
It’s clear we’re not playing Candyland anymore. We’re going off the board, he’s shoving the game and all the pieces to the floor in one strong sweep of his arm. The cards and the markers scatter, clinking on my floor, and I don’t care about anything else except the the way he lifts me up on the table, and moves his hand from my throat to my chest to my waist, as if he knows instinctually how much I love having my h*ps touched, like he knows all the spots on my body that can drive me wild without me even having to tell him. He can find them in the dark, without a map. He needs no direction. The playbook to my body is in him, his head, his heart, his hands. He knows what I want. He knows how I like it. He wants to give it to me. Soon, I’m breathless, and we’re chest to chest, h*ps to hips, and I’m grasping at him, my hands sliding around to his perfect ass, so round and firm, and I grab hold of him, desperately needing the friction of his body against mine, even though we’re fully clothed. His hands explore me, feathering against the exposed skin of my thighs, then sliding inside the hem of my skirt. Teasing, tempting, inching higher, and if he keeps going like this I am going to lean my head back and gasp in pleasure. Something I’m dangerously near to doing as his fingers reach the deliciously agonizing point where I want him most. Discovering how ready I am for him. Wickedly delighting in knowing I am full of a crazy kind of longing for him, that my body calls out for his. Oh, I could so cry out his name right now, let him have me, take me, taste me. Let the world know he drives me wild.
Then I stop the fantasy from going any further. A guy like that – funny, charming, into video games – would never be into a gal like me.
Besides, there is no moonlight.
Chapter Six
I stare at my computer screen, as if the solution to finding a guy who’ll fill my heart with gladness and take away all my sadness lies somewhere in the machine. Because Meter Boy was a bust, and Craigslist is not my cup of tea, and I don’t know where to go next. It’s not as if I’m terribly good at the bar pick-up scene. Does that even work anymore? I haven’t a clue about how to date, let alone how to run a dating contest. Why did I ever think I could pull this off? I’m a fashion blogger. I know which shirts go with skirts, and where to find the screaming deals. I don’t know about men anymore.
The doorbell rings. I straighten up and head over to the front door, quickly checking my reflection in the nearby mirror. All clear. I peer through the peephole.
The Fedex Guy is back.
He really is cute. He has blond hair and brown eyes, a combo I love. I’m reminded of Lena’s suggestion that I consider him as a candidate. Maybe the eight-year-old was right.
“Hold on, I’ll be right there,” I shout, then I peek at the mirror, fluff my hair, bite my lips for color, and smooth my tee-shirt, a pale yellow number that I picked up at a little shop in Petaluma that’s my best source for quirky cool tee-shirts. This shirt has an illustration of a mechanical horse and the words “Saddle Up and Ride” on the front. I’ve worn it a few times on my show, and viewers love it, and so does the store that sells it since I’ve sent a ton of business its way. I also worn it once when I picked up Hayden’s daughter from school to help her out. I got a few cold looks from the other moms that day. Whatever. It’s not like it says “Saddle up and Ride Me.”
I open the door and do my best to assume a sexy smile, but not quite a come-hither one. It’s a delicate balancing act. And I am so out of practice at the art of seduction, I’m beyond out of practice. But I give it my best shot. Be sexy, be bold.
“Hello,” I say slowly, drawing out each syllable.
“Hi there. Got a package for you. Want to sign?”
“I would love to sign your package,” I purr back.
He raises an eyebrow, and all my self-confidence depletes to zero. A withered balloon.
“Just tell me where.” I return to my professional voice. No wonder I haven’t landed a date. I’m abysmal.