“Huh?” I close my eyes so we don’t have to look at each other so closely. It weirds me out a bit.
“I’m going to kiss you now.” And he does. He attaches his mouth to mine. We are a good fit. I keep my jaw set to a position that won’t allow his tongue access into my mouth. Of course, I assume he tastes as good as he smells, but after the corpse kiss catastrophe, I don’t want to risk another bad kiss if the way he tastes makes me gag.
His hand ghosts down my arm, and his thumb grazes over my breast—I think by accident. It overstimulates my nipple, just that simple graze, because my strapless dress doesn’t accommodate a bra. And while I don’t want him to touch my breast again, accidental or not, I feel an urgency to orgasm.
No more foreplay.
No more teasing.
Just the orgasm, please!
He releases my lips. “You seem to be feeling better. I think we can still have our date.”
I can’t stop thinking about his thumb grazing my nipple area. Was it an accident? My body reacts oddly to different touches. That tiny thumb graze sends my hypersensitivity into overdrive. It’s all I can think about. I need to get my body back in balance, but it’s like he pushed a button, and he can’t reverse what needs to happen to balance my body at this exact moment.
Dr. Hawkins takes a step back, rubbing his lips together before turning up his signature grin. “So, what do you want to do first? I was thinking—”
“I want you to go down on me.”
He freezes for several seconds. Not a single blink. Then his jaw unhinges so slowly I expect to hear it creak.
“I-I was going to say drinks at the bar and then dinner.”
“Then why did you kiss me and run your thumb over my nipple?”
He covers his mouth with his fist and coughs a laugh. “I uh …” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I …”
I sigh. Clearly, I misread a cue. Sexual cues are the hardest for me to read. Either I completely miss blatant attempts men make to get me into bed, or I misread something as simple as a misplaced thumb during a first kiss. “Dinner is fine. I’m not drinking alcohol tonight.”
Dr. Hawkins continues to inspect me with what I think is confusion, based on his wrinkled brow, but I’m not sure what’s confused him so much. I’m not the one who made a confusing sexual advance.
“What?” I tear my gaze away from him because my inability to read his expression feeds my already out of control anxiety.
“Did you really just ask me to go down on you?”
“Asked? No. Suggested? Yes. But if you don’t do that sort of thing, it’s okay. Let’s just get pizza? They have an amazing Caesar salad too.”
“I … we …” He closes his eyes for a few seconds and shakes his head.
“What? I can’t keep up with your stuttering and head shaking. I’m not good with that kind of communication. In fact, it drives me crazy. So use your words. What are you thinking? Have I done something wrong? Offended you? What?”
“You’re unexpected.”
“I’m weird.”
“Refreshingly honest.” He smiles. It’s the good one again, not the grimace he had on his face just seconds ago. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“Okay.”
He breathes the essence of a small laugh from his nose. “Okay.”
“So pizza?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah … option two is fine.”
“Option two?” My head cocks to the side.
He smirks.
“Oh …” I laugh. “The moment for option one passed. I’d rather have pizza now.”
“Should I be offended?”
I narrow my eyes. “Well, I don’t think so. Why would you be offended?”
Someone walks out and climbs into the car next to mine. Dr. Hawkins gives them a nod and a polite smile. I mimic his reaction to them.
“Why would you be offended?”
“Dorothy, I was joking. I’m not offended.”
“Huh …” I grunt. “I missed the funny part of that joke.”
“It was poorly delivered. Just forget it. Let’s get pizza.”
I follow him into the restaurant, and we wait for someone to take our name before waiting at the bar. He doesn’t try to fill the wait time with small talk. And I keep my conversation starters to myself, knowing I’ll need them during dinner. No sense in wasting them on a ten-minute wait while they get our table ready.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.
“Water. And a Dr. Pepper.”
He relays my order to the bartender.
“They’re out of Dr. Pepper,” he says, glancing back at me.
“Figures.” I frown. “Just water then.”
We take our two special order bar waters with us to our table.
“What do you want to eat?” He opens his menu.
I don’t have to open my menu. In fact, menus drive me crazy. Too many choices and too much pressure. That’s why I like frequenting the same places or scoping out online menus in advance for new restaurants.