I went home and took a shower, changed into a pair of leggings and a form fitting tunic. Just in case there was going to be a round two; I left the underwear in the drawer. Slipping into a pair of black pumps, and spraying on my favorite body spray, I headed out the door. Already late for a dinner I didn’t want to eat, I stopped and grabbed a sandwich from Wendy’s so that I could pick at the fish that I wasn’t going to eat and not offended the cook.
Actually, I didn’t care about offending him, how do you invite someone to dinner and not even ask them if they like fish? I just can’t get past the smell of fish. And fried fish. You need to hand me a gas mask. Funny, because I grew up on the coast, I’m supposed to love this stuff. I’m just not your typical southerner, I guess. That’s what makes me – me – and so hard for people to understand.
And now I’m starting to worry. What if this whole thing with David turned out to be another mistake with a man? I was getting pretty tired of the bullshit. Maybe I needed to change? But how? And was he someone I should change for – orgasms withstanding—what the hell did I know about him. Oh, Lord, here I go again confusing my clitoris with my heart. I needed to get to know this man beyond the bedroom to see if he was worth it. And I was going to tell him that I didn’t want his damned fish.
I arrived at David’s place around seven thirty. He opened the door in a white tank that highlighted his dark skin and nearly made me forget that little pep talk that I’d had with myself on the drive over. “And I thought I’d been stood up,” he said as he ushered me in. “But you were definitely worth the wait.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s all right,” he said then gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Come in and let me get you a plate.”
I could feel his eyes on my ass as I walked toward the dining room table. Score one for the black leggings. “Umm,” he expelled.
I stopped and he was pressed against me, hard as a brick and it felt so good. I had to take two steps forward before I pushed back and dinner became like lunch, imaginary.
“So,” I said, voice husky and V.I Warshawski, circa Kathleen Turner, like. “What’s for dinner again?”
The look in his eyes said he wanted to put me on the table and have me along with that grilled corn.
“Come in the kitchen with me, you can fix your plate,” he said then brushed against me and kissed my cheek. “I realized something after I cooked.”
“What was that?”
“I didn’t even ask if you liked the menu.”
Smiling, I put a check in the right column for giving him a chance. “I’m not a seafood person, particularly fish.”
He hitched his right eyebrow. “And you’re from the south?”
“Don’t let that fool you. I actually enjoy tofu and vegetables that aren’t pork flavored.”
“Ha! Are you a vegan?”
“Not at all. Cheese is my best friend.”
He stroked my hip. “So, how do I replace cheese?”
“Depends on how good this corn is.”
“Then let’s eat.”