I close my hands around her upper arms, caressing her skin with my fingertips. "Why do you seem ashamed of your living arrangements? In Scotland, many grown children live with their parents, grandparents, siblings…"
"In America, you're a loser if you live at home. Even if your parents aren't actually present."
Hooking a finger under her chin, I push up until she raises her face to me. "I don't care where you live, as long as I'm the only man you're sleeping with for the next four weeks."
Just because this is a sexual relationship and nothing more, that doesn't mean I have to share my lover with other men.
Hand in hand, we leave the house and traipse across the adjoining lawns to reach Erica's home. I volunteer to make popcorn, though it's hardly an act of great chivalry since she only has the microwave kind. Yes, I exert a lot of energy while opening the box and taking out the bag, then tossing it into the microwave. But it's the thought that counts, isn't it?
I hate sayings like that one. How does the thought count if no real thought went into the decision?
When I amble into the living room, carrying a bowl of popcorn, Erica is already seated on the sofa with pillows artfully arranged around her. They form a cozy wee spot for us. The film has just started, and African drums are pounding out an exhilarating rhythm while the credits roll. I settle onto the sofa beside Erica, tucked into the corner, and drape an arm over her shoulders. I don't mind when she cuddles closer to me. It feels…nice.
Though I focus on the movie, peripherally I notice Erica watching me.
"How old are you?" she asks.
I swivel my head toward her. "Forty-two. Why the sudden interest in my age?"
"Just filling in your driver's license."
"I don't follow."
"Never mind."
Ah well, women are inscrutable. Every man knows it.
I return my attention to the TV, drawing Erica a little closer.
"Don't you want to know how old I am?" she asks.
"I never ask a woman's age. Was that a trick question?"
"No." She snatches up a handful of popcorn and stuffs it into her mouth. "I'm twenty-eight."
Her words were slightly muffled by the large amount of popcorn in her mouth.
The meaning of what she said finally hits me, and my entire body goes rigid. "You're just a bairn. I'm beginning to feel like a dirty old man."
"I am not a bairn. And you're not old." She nudges me with her elbow. "As for dirty… Well, that's what I signed up for, right?"
I laugh and do my damnedest to make it sound erotic. "So you did."
Erica nestles into me, tucking both legs under her, and rests her head on my chest.
My ex-wife had never liked this kind of intimacy. She hadn't liked intimacy at all, except the sexual variety—and then only if it involved things I couldn't stomach.
Sex is all I want with Erica, so the warmth of her body pressed to mine doesn't matter at all.
When she skims her hand down my chest to my waistband, my breath hitches. My pulse speeds up too.
Hell with the movie. I need to give Erica a preview of tomorrow night.
A few minutes later, I have her spread out on the sofa beneath me while I grope and caress every inch of her sexy body. I kiss her the entire time, kiss her for so long and so thoroughly that I'm amazed either of us can breathe while our lips are locked and our tongues are ravishing each other. Every time she arches her hips, I battle the almost overpowering need to take her right here, right now.
I don't do it, though. I have a plan for seducing her, and I will wait until tomorrow night. I have to wait. The surprise I've prepared isn't quite ready yet.
So instead of shagging Erica, I kiss her good night and leave.