The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty

I love how he eats. How is it I've never noticed that about a man before?  He's so neat and precise about it, about everything really.    I think I expected him to be a lot messier in things. But he isn't.

I mean he isn't Oliver borderline OCD, but he's far tidier than he looks at first glance.  Even his rugged appearance, when you looked closely, was actually very uncluttered and orderly.

He looks different with his beard trimmed back —still exceptionally good looking, still devastatingly handsome, but different. I wonder what he'd look like completely shaven?  Still beautiful, I had no doubt about that. His jawline was strong and his skin smooth and flawless. I wouldn't mind seeing the whole of his face sometime.  

His eyes sparkle like they always do when he's had wine, and the open collar of his white shirt purposefully teases me, daring me to reach over the table and lick the soft warm skin of his neck.  

How is it that he's never been on a date with a woman?  Didn't he say last night he'd been someone's boyfriend?  He never once took her out on a date?  Suddenly I understand why he was terrible at being a boyfriend.

"Would you like to see the dessert menu?" The blonde girl asks. She's in her early twenties and pretty in that all-American, fresh-faced, straight white teethed way. Plays hockey and tennis, holiday's in Cabo. She bats her eyelashes at Aidan whose gaze moves from her back to me. When he doesn't answer her she drags her eyes somewhat reluctantly to me. 

"No, thank you," I say. "You don't want anything?" I raise an eyebrow at him. Since he's always hungry I find this hard to believe.

"Do I want dessert?" He says, more to himself than me.

He runs his long finger back and forth over his bottom lip, thoughtful.  It makes my mind wander and the insides of my thighs tingle. I know what he's thinking. I'm thinking the same. Beneath the table I slip my foot out of my shoe and run it up the inside of his thigh, enjoying the way his eyes widen. He spreads his legs a little wider for me. 

He doesn't look at the waitress when he speaks. "Just the bill thanks," he tells her, his voice low. 

"Actually, you know what, I've changed my mind," I turn my head to smile at her. "I wouldn't mind having a look." I slide my foot further up his leg, pressing my bare toes into the hard muscular part of his inner thigh, up across the growing hardness between them.  

I want him, but I'm also enjoying being here with him, on a date. The atmosphere is nice, the wine is good, and the food had been delicious. We'd shared oysters and then I'd had lobster and Aidan steak. He'd told me he never follows a fish starter by a fish main, and so had chosen a huge slab of meat instead,  which he'd asked for rare and with chips, not vegetables. He'd let me taste it, stretching across to feed me a piece from his fork. Then he'd politely asked permission before reaching over to stab a piece of my lobster with his fork.  

The girl nods and lifts the empty bottle of wine from the table and leaves us alone, though not before throwing another covetous look in Aidan's direction. Not that I could blame her for that. He looked particularly 'sexy' tonight.  As soon as she's out of earshot he narrows his eyes on me.

"You love fucking torturing me don't you?" He says, the side of his mouth quirking up.  I consider telling him no, that I merely love fucking him, but I refrain.

He slips his hand under the table and grabs hold of my foot, pressing it harder against the semi-arousal between his legs. My body trembles at the contact.

"Is that what I'm doing? Torturing you?" I smile, lifting my wine glass. I sip slowly of the cool sweet white which had gone lovely with the fresh lobster. "I thought we were having a lovely night; a lovely first date. I just want to prolong it a little that's all," I shrug.