“Hmm. I can’t speak to those, I suppose.” We turned the corner and headed down Elizabeth toward Park. “But your criminal past is behind you, right?”
“Guess that depends on your definition of crime.”
I glanced at him, squeezing his hand. “Hey, you’re way too serious here. I was trying to give you a compliment for once. You were very nice to that little girl.”
Finally, he smiled. “Thanks. A compliment from you, that is pretty rare. Usually you’re calling me an asshole.”
We approached the entrance to the thirties-era jazz club, music filtering through the revolving door. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em. And tonight, you’re not an asshole, you’re a very nice guy.”
He caught my elbow, yanking me back against him before I could get in the door. “Don’t count on that. The night is young.”
Yes, it was.
Two surprisingly interesting things happened the night I took Charlie to the ballet. Well, three if you count the blowjob, which I suppose wasn’t that surprising, although quite interesting. But that happened later. (Don’t worry, I’ll give details.)
The first thing was that Charlie kissed me. He’d kissed me before, of course, first in my kitchen doorway on Thanksgiving, then later on the stairs. And there was lots of kissing on the picnic blanket in front of the fire last weekend. Frantic, frenzied, fuck-me-now kissing that made the world spin faster and the floors tilt and set every cell in my body on fire.
But the kiss at Cliff Bell’s wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all.
The restored speakeasy was dimly lit by wall sconces and lamps that all seemed to glow with the colors of firelight somehow—gold and orange and scarlet, but subdued, rather than bright. The club was crowded, no tables open, and just a single seat along the bar. I sat down, and Charlie stood beside me. We ordered drinks and listened to the live music, and the strangest feeling started to overtake me. Actually it was less a feeling than an awareness of things beginning to change between Charlie and me.
It began when I noticed how close he stood behind me, closer than the space between barstools demanded. His torso was warm against my back, and every time I pictured him in that gray suit, my heart tripped. Then there was the way he leaned in to whisper when he wanted to say something, some little comment about a song or a soloist or the art deco decor. He’d put a hand on my right shoulder and place his lips at my left ear, the soft brush of his breath on my skin sending a shiver down my arms. Eventually he just left his hand on that shoulder…then slid it down my arm…then slipped it beneath my arm to wrap around my waist. Surprised, I went still for a moment. This was not non-date behavior, was it? If he could, I could.
I placed my hand over his and turned my head, looking back at him over my left shoulder. If he kisses me, this is a date.
He didn’t even hesitate. Pressing his lips to mine, he held them there, and a moment later I felt his fingers beneath my chin in the sweetest gesture I could have imagined. Actually, I couldn’t have imagined it. Not from Charlie.
But this kiss was nothing like our others. Nothing frenetic or rushed or overwrought. No spinning or tilting or crashing. No tongues or teeth clashing. In fact, I’m not even sure we breathed. This kiss had such a lovely stillness about it, a tenderness that had been missing, that I was scared a breath might break the spell. It was fragile and guileless and pure, something to be protected.
His lips were cool at first, chilled by the ice in his gin and tonic. Mine were too, from the crisp, bubbly champagne in my glass. But it took only seconds for our lips to grow warm, heated by touch, by thought, by feeling. My entire body grew warm, actually. My hand pressed his to my stomach, my toes curled inside my shoes, and heat prickled across my back inside my dress.
What on earth was this?
Applause for a song that ended broke out, and Charlie lifted his lips from mine. But just a few inches, and he kept his fingers beneath my chin.
I turned in my chair to face him, letting my head fall back. He kissed me once more, another slow, sweet lullaby of a kiss. Something is happening, I thought. Something good.
So good that I didn’t want to examine it any closer, didn’t want to look behind the curtain. Whatever magic this was felt too good to last, so I was just going to enjoy it. A moment later, Charlie picked up his head.
“Ready to go?”
His kiss had been soft, but something else was in his eyes now. Something harder, edgier. Darker. Something that made my insides tremble and my panties wet. “Yes.”
Charlie paid the bill, and we left our drinks on the bar half-finished. Taking my hand, he pulled me quickly toward the door.
“Charlie,” I said breathlessly, once we’d rushed through the revolving door. “I have my car here.”
He didn’t stop moving though, and I could barely keep up in my heels. “Just come with me.”
We raced through the chilly dark to the lot where he was parked, and Charlie opened the passenger door for me. I slid into the front seat, glancing into the back and wondering if he was planning on parking in a dark alley and tossing me back there.
I’d have done it.
Charlie got in and started the car, tore out of the lot and swerved quickly around Grand Circus Park, turning onto Washington. I had to hold onto the dash, he was driving so fast. I wanted to know where he was taking me, but something told me not to ask.
In front of the Westin Book Cadillac, he looped around and pulled up to valet parking. The uniformed attendant opened my door and I stepped out, moving closer to the heaters above the glass entrance. My pulse raced as Charlie spoke to the valet and then strode toward me. He took my hand and pulled me into the hotel. “Wait here,” he said in the lobby, pointing to the elevators.