“Bianca, I’ve been thinking.”
James has gray eyes, and in that moment, his lashes were like charcoal smudges. I had an odd urge to wipe my index finder over his lids—just to prove to myself he wasn’t wearing mascara.
He took my hand across the table. My cappuccino steamed untouched between us. James had wanted to see a Hitchcock double feature at the independent theatre across the river. No one should go see Hitchcock alone, he’d teased when he’s called to reserve the evening. With four hours of classic fear coursing through my veins, caffeine was the last thing I needed.
“I’d like to take this to the next level. How would we do that?”
I took my hand back. This beautiful, sweet, lonely man didn’t even realize that he was trying court me.
“What would you like?”
“I’d like to… make love to you.”
“When you you like to do that?”
His voice dropped. “Right now.” His neck and ears flushed.
We left Starbucks several minutes later. The black car I’d texted for was waiting outside. He gave the driver an address. When the glass closed, I dropped to my knees and let the street rumble reverberate up my legs.