🔥STEAMY ALERT—*slightly* steamy scene towards the end (still fairly PG-13, though)🔥
♫ They say it's wrong, but
That's the way you turn me on ♪
(Ariana Grande—Bad Decisions)
She'd brought it just in case: the "if Ryan calls and asks to see me" dress. A long sleeved, off the shoulder, stopping at her mid-thighs black number she'd once bought on a whim, and never thought she'd dare wear.
She'd modeled it for Ryan during one of their calls, and he'd begged her to bring it, to wear it, to let him rip it off her. It hugged her figure, sliding down the curves of her body, and though she'd cringed when she purchased it, she liked how it made her feel sexy, desirable, noticeable.
Jayden had declared it was too short, too slinky, and something for a girl with a slimmer body.
Fuck him. Ryan loved me in it, and that's what counts.
With Delilah's stamp of approval—and after she shoved a handful of condoms into her purse—Coralie hopped into a cab.
"Scarfes, please," she said, crossing her legs and ensuring her pumps were secure on her feet and her strapless bra wasn't popping out in the back of the dress.
Scarfes was a bar she'd always wanted to visit, but never got a chance to. It was inside the Rosewood, a magnificent luxury hotel that Coralie had dreamed of staying in since she was a little girl. Ryan had insisted they meet there, as the ambiance was perfect for two old friends reuniting, for a few casual drinks to catch up, get reacquainted.
Upon pulling up to the enormous off-beige building, Coralie's jaw dropped. It was bigger and more impressive than she'd remembered, and she wondered if it was the right place.
But the driver didn't hesitate, so she paid him, gulping at the massive structure she was about to enter.
Once out of the car, she fixed the hem of her dress, shrugged a few fingers through her barely tamed curls, and adjusted the drooping sides of her sleeves. Ryan had told her to go under the arch and take a right before entering the courtyard—the bar would be at the end of a tiled pathway lined by glass doors.
She followed a few other patrons as they headed in, dressed in jeans and tennis shoes or skimpy dresses.
She hesitated; was she overdressed? Or was the dress too short, too revealing, one that would show she was trying too hard?
Delilah's words rang in her mind; her final encouragement as she kicked her out of the hotel room.
"You are beautiful and fierce, Coralie Watson. Look how far you've come and look at where you're going. You're hot, so assume it. Now go fuck that boy before he changes his mind and gets cold feet."
Only half-convinced, Coralie sucked in a deep breath, perked up, and pushed the double doors leading into the bar.
What awaited her inside was a sleek, soothing aura of dimmed lights and gentle music and glasses clinking. Velvet armchairs decorated the sides, and blue bar-stools flanked a dark wood counter where bartenders shook drinks in silver shakers.
It was like stepping into a fifties gentleman's club, minus the cigar scent and the ladies in mini-skirts distributing beverages.
Most of the clientele seemed to be of an age with her, either settled around tables imbibing in colorful cocktails, or chilling at the bar, spinning in their chairs, waving at her—
Oh.
Someone was waving at her, but it wasn't some ordinary patron. It was a handsome man with light brown skin, holding a clear drink in one hand, his other beckoning her forward.
He outshined other customers by a long shot. He didn't blend in, and didn't seem to care. His gaze was fixed on Coralie as she took a few more steps inside.
He was a blur, a mirage in a powder blue suit with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the top. Even if she hadn't recognized him at once, he would have intrigued her with his gentlemanly airs and his upright posture and his torso puffed out as he watched her.
His eyebrows arched and a smile spread over his lips as Coralie came close, close, closer. But as his features sharpened, as she deciphered the dots of green and hazel in his ocean eyes, as she identified the subtle creases in his forehead and noticed the different shades of brown and black and auburn in his beard, her heart stopped.
All manners of the usual love-at-first-sight style clichés raced through her brain. The time-stopping, transporting to another planet, everyone around her disappearing sensations all happened so fast they knotted her intestines and forced her to quit walking, to clutch at her gut, to picture herself rewinding, restarting. She almost wanted to turn tail and run out before he stopped her.
In his pictures throughout the years, she'd found him charming, well-built, a good-looking guy that she'd always adored. In the recent video-chats he'd revealed himself as even more good-looking, grown-up and confident as he'd never been in their teenage days. He made her laugh, always saying the right things to please her.
But this man before her, watching her try to stabilize herself as the ground seemed to break beneath her, was no man—he was a god. He had to be; a radiant glow glimmered around his outline and every inch of his exposed skin prompted her to want to touch it, kiss it, worship it until he responded to her every desire. Every muscle in her core screamed at her to jump into his big arms and beg him to take her away, to shove her against a wall and lift her dress and—
"Cora," he said, his minty mojito breath washing over her face, waking her from her lustful dream. "You okay? Come here!" He'd gotten up to come get her, and his hand wrapped around hers, worsening the haze his presence had stuffed her in. She suffocated on the inescapable sensuality that dripped from his every move.
"Ry... RyRy." As he tugged her closer, she felt gravity pulling her down. Her knees shook and her extremities tingled. She wanted to pinch herself—no way was she awake and experiencing this for real. It was like every single one of her fantasies about him had mashed together and exploded into brilliant, blinding fireworks.
Ryan fucking Bennett. The one she'd had questions about, the one she had unfinished business with, the one she'd never expected to resurface in her life so fast and with such intensity. The one she'd yearned to be with for twelve years, and who reanimated her frosted heart and woke lust and love and hunger in her abdomen.
He tilted her chin up, and when his fingers grazed her flushed face, when their gazes connected, every sensation that had already flipped her world upside-down intensified.
A fire burned in her rib-cage and she wasn't sure she could stand straight for much longer.
I can't believe this is happening.
Before she collapsed, he weaved his arms around her and yanked her against him. "Fuck, it's so good to see you. In person." He squeezed her, and his peppery cedar and citrus scent snuck up her nostrils and loosened her nerves. It embraced her, soothed her, and without meaning to, she sniffed at his jacket like one would smell a fresh towel out of the dryer.
"Shit," she whispered, sliding her arms around his firm middle, letting her cheeks melt into the soft fabric of his coat, yearning to drown in it and never come up for air.
To her shock, he pressed his nose and mouth into her hair and breathed in every strand as if they were his only means to survive.
When at last he released her—after what felt like decades—he held her at arm's length and inspected her from head to toe.
"You are a vision." His tongue darted out to graze over his lips. "And I'm glad you chose that dress. It suits you. Really suits you."
Tucking a few hairs behind her ears, she lifted a shoulder playfully and lowered onto the stool beside his. "I remembered how much you liked it, and brought it, though I wasn't sure we'd hang out."
He sat and waved the bartender over. "I'm sorry for making you wait, and I swear to you I didn't mean to. Nor did I mean to go so silent."
She ordered a mojito and set her purse onto the impeccable counter. Everything was so clean, so polished. No puddles of liquid amassing near peanut bowls or rowdy morons yelling at a DJ, requesting some overplayed radio song. Here everyone was calm, poised, enjoying the band playing jazzy tunes in a corner, or speaking of their days over platters of charcuterie.
She imagined weekends were busier and crazier, and it pleased her Ryan had contacted her on a Wednesday instead.
"I missed you," she said, turning her upper body to him, her knees still wobbly and her heart still struggling to maintain a steady rhythm. "And I worried about you, about us. Worried you had... changed your mind."
She wouldn't mention how often she almost wished he had, as it would have helped her move on and concentrate on her life instead of gawking at her phone fifty times a day. Instead of obsessing over whether or not he had seen her recent YouTube video or if he had stalked her profile recently or if he gave a shit about her at all. Instead of considering moving across the world to launch herself into his arms and implore him to never let her go.
Delilah had reminded her he was like all other guys; why would he be different? After all, he was happily married, but all his actions had implied that he had no trouble cheating on his wife. What sort of asshole did that? What sort of prick would risk his perfect marriage for a quick adventure?
Though she partially agreed—she refused to call Ryan an asshole—Coralie couldn't stop her urges, couldn't fight her mind when it drifted to him. Because to her, he wasn't that guy; not the bad boy from all those stupid movie tropes, not a heart-breaking dick who had affairs whenever he traveled.
No, Ryan was a faithful spouse, a marvelous father, a hard-working entrepreneur. She was an exception; she was the one he'd wanted to be with for years, but they were never single at the same time, never on the same page.
She hated to remember that technically, they still weren't.
Don't let it ruin your night. Enjoy him while you can.
She also hated to compare this dreamy atmosphere charged with passion to when she'd had her first date with Michael. She'd been uneasy, shy, uncertain how to express herself, though after a few sushi rolls she'd loosened up. Here, with Ryan, despite her stirring nerve endings and increased swallowing and her fidgeting, she was getting cozy, unwinding in his presence.
Unlike most men she'd known, Ryan had never judged her. He didn't only vaguely listen to her like Benjamin, didn't lie to her like Zachary, and didn't question her past like Jayden. When she'd spoken of some of the escapades she'd had before her near-rape, he hadn't scrunched his brows or called her names; he'd asked for details. And instead of telling her she probably deserved the trauma from her behavior, he swore that if he ever found the guy who almost took her without consent, he'd murder him.
Sitting next to Ryan, all her inhibitions fizzled out, replaced by a confidence she rarely experienced with anyone else. Because he praised her, because he knew her better than anyone else, despite their years of separation.
As they filled each other in on recent events, she continued to grow comfortable. She finished his sentences, stroked his arm when he spoke of something nostalgic or painful, and flashed playful grins when he flirted with her.
With every drink they ordered, her fingers ached with the need to touch him, to keep bringing her legs closer to his, to find reasons for their hands to meet. And whenever they did come into contact with one another, electricity skipped along her skin and nestled into her heart, causing it to thump and thrum and pound so hard it hurt. Butterflies had unleashed inside when she first walked into the bar, and now they flapped about, dizzily unhinged in her gut, as if ready to tear out and flutter around her head.
Throughout the night, he'd slowly slid his hand from her upper back, to her waist, to the inside of her lower thigh. But he kept it at a respectable distance from the one spot she craved for him to make his way to.
They ordered a fourth round. Coralie felt her pulse in her throat as he skimmed his fingertips along his jawline, then raised his glass.
"To us. To being here together after twelve years."
As their glasses clinked, as their gazes linked, a sudden pull, an impossible to explain urge rushed up her spine and tickled her neck and flickered in her brain. She had to hold in the impulse to moan in pleasure at the sensation, and refrain from grabbing his face and pulling it up to hers, smooshing her lips to his.
She watched as he brought the rim of the cup to his mouth and sipped, almost in slow motion. As a tiny droplet drizzled down from his lips, she battled the urge to wipe it with her finger, with her tongue.
As if catching on to her train of thought, he replaced his drink on the counter and pivoted to her.
"Cora," he mumbled, barely audible over the melodies in the background. He swiveled her stool towards him and leaned in, his lips parting to show his tongue, his eagerness. It was enough to rouse her curiosity and prompt her to arch her spine, to await his approach.
She couldn't move, as his knees wedged between hers and locked her in place. She didn't want to move.
It was the moment she'd anticipated for days, months, years. So many times she'd imagined the taste of him—a bit tangy, a bit fruity, tantalizing and delectable and impossible to resist. So many times she'd fantasized over his lips on hers, soft but urgent, gentle but impatient, and his tongue torpedoing around hers in skillful motions, creating chaos in her belly and bringing steam to rise all around her.
As her eyes closed, she could have sworn his lips had found hers, that they'd collided and she'd been so lulled into the moment that she'd become numb and lost all sense of time and space.
But instead, something buzzed near her hand. And that buzz yanked her from her trance, drew her from Ryan's potentially alluring kiss, away from the utter bliss she'd been desperate for.
"Shit," she said, reaching for her phone, seeing Delilah Cell on the screen. "I have to take this—she wouldn't call tonight if it weren't an emergency."
Though his expression turned stony and he hunched backwards, Ryan nodded, grabbing his drink to hide his frown.
Warring with her own disappointment, Coralie picked up the call. "Delilah?" She covered her mouth. "What the fuck?"
"Cora—" Delilah hiccupped, and the feebleness in her voice implied she'd been crying, "—dude, I did something stupid, I... I got drunk, bought some tequila—"
"—oh for the love of—" Coralie huffed, well aware that Delilah wasn't allowed to have tequila, ever, "—why did you do that?"
"I was lonely, you were gone... and I'm dumb, that's why." Delilah sniffled, and Coralie knew that was the sound of her date with Ryan ending. "I texted Mallory."
Mallory—Delilah's reckless and revolting ex-girlfriend who had smashed her heart to pieces and cheated on her with half of San Francisco.
"What the hell possessed you to do that?"
"Tequila, bitch!" She let out a wail mixed with nervous laughter. "I need you to come get me, I... I have no idea where I am. Some dive bar somewhere, I'm not... not far from the hotel..."
"Fine. Text me its name." She hung up, inhaled, exhaled, and gaped at Ryan. "I am so sorry, but I have to cut this short. My roommate is in trouble."
"Ah." He winced, then leaned close again and traced his fingers along her chin. "I understand. And I'm sorry you have to go. Really sorry. But message me later, okay? Let me know when you get back to San Francisco."
After an extended hug—and sniffing in his scent one last time—Coralie hailed a cab and headed to the bar Delilah had texted her, half-regretting ruining her once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make out with the hottest man she'd ever met, but half-happy she hadn't.
Delilah might have stoppedher from making a huge mistake, from dipping her toes into a sea of despair andagony she didn't know how to swim in.
♥♥♥