The First Taste(20)

“Keep touching me like that,” he dares. “See where it leads.”

I pull my hand back fast, as if his skin burns. Not because I’m afraid of where it’ll lead, but because I zoned out for a second admiring them. I forgot where I was, and I always make a point to be aware of my surroundings.

I take the drinks from him. Andrew gets in the bath and sinks down. “Fuck,” he groans, setting his head back against the lip and closing his eyes. “Really? I can’t believe I never do this.”

My insides tighten. He looks masculine as ever, even up to his neck in bubbles. I’m already getting hot for him again. I went a year without sex, and suddenly I don’t want to wait minutes for it.

He opens his eyes and reaches a long arm over the side to stroke the outside of my thigh. “Coming?” he asks.

“I’m waiting for it to cool a little.”

“But it’s perfect now.” He eyes me up and down. “Turn around. You have the best ass I’ve ever seen.”

I’m sure it’s an exaggeration, but nonetheless, my body warms under his approval. I do as he says and face the bathroom.

“Incredible,” he says.

Suddenly, I’m alone again, and I don’t want to be. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Get in here,” he says. “Put that sweet ass in my lap.”

I move a little slower than him, but soon I’m submerged. He pulls me back against his chest. I’d prefer to sit opposite him, the less intimate of the two options, but his arms are already strong around me. I’m not used to this much affection, especially from a one-night stand. I don’t mind it, but it takes a little extra effort to remind myself every few minutes it’s not real.

Tentatively, I lay my head back against his shoulder. “Is it everything you dreamed it would be?” I ask.

“And more,” he says. “Between work, exercise, and having a daughter who thinks I’m a tree she can climb, I can be hard on my body. Sometimes I forget to slow down.”

I shift in his grip. With two sentences he’s painted me a picture of what he has—a full life—but also what he doesn’t—someone to remind him to take care of himself. Like a puzzle, pieces of him are falling into place. I might prefer our conversations weren’t so personal, but I hadn’t even realized what was happening. We’re getting to know each other.

Silence stretches between us. It’s comfortable, but soon, comfortable silence begins to feel more intimate than casual conversation. “What do you do?” I ask.

“I own an auto shop. Car and bike repairs mostly. Some restoration of classic cars.”

“I’ve never dated a mechanic,” I say. Andrew’s vastly different from anyone I’ve been with, but not just because of what he does.

“I’m more than a mechanic,” he says.

“Oh, I know.” My face, already warm from the temperature, gets hot. For the first time, I wonder if it’s uncomfortable for him to be in another man’s apartment, especially one as nice as this one. “I didn’t mean to suggest you weren’t.”

“It’s okay. You probably don’t even own a vehicle.”

“I don’t.”

“It’s not your world.”

“Not really.” I scoop some bubbles into my palm. “So you like cars? And motorcycles?”

“Since I was a kid. Got it from my grandpa. You ever been on a bike?”

“No.” I can have fun without risking my life and my hairstyle. “It’s not for me.”

“Is it a hair thing?”

I start to laugh but stop so I don’t give myself away. Am I that easy to read? “No,” I lie with enthusiasm. “I just don’t see the appeal.”

“So you have no issue getting your hair messy?”

“Of course not. It’s just hair.”

“Good,” he says, ruffling the top of my head, sending bubbles down my nose.

Instinctively, I reach up and bat his wet hands away. “Hey!”

“That’s better. It didn’t even look like we just f*cked,” he says. “Not good for my ego.”

“Your ego?” I ask, smoothing my long bob into obedience. “I’m beginning to wonder if girls with unkempt hair and beer guts do it for you.”

He laughs, bouncing my body, then hugs me closer. “You always been this uptight?”

I mock-gasp. He’s teasing me, but he speaks the truth, so I can’t really be mad. “Pretty much,” I admit. “I like things a certain way. I’m not sorry about it. I wouldn’t be where I am otherwise.”

“And where’s that?”

“A successful entrepreneur by the age of—” I pause. “Of the age I am.”

“Which would be?”

“It’s not polite to ask a woman her age, Andrew.” For women, age can be an enemy, especially in New York City. There’s always someone younger looking to take over. At thirty-two, I don’t need to worry—yet—but I won’t always be thirty-two. I prefer not to expose my weaknesses, past, present, or future.

“All right,” he says hesitantly. “You are from a different world.”

“Why? I assure you, the girls you normally sleep with care about their ages too, even if they’re young.”