HIM
I hadn’t planned on kissing her.
I hadn’t planned on ever kissing her.
Fantasizing about it and actually doing it, I’ve long ago learned are two very different things.
As are wanting to stop yourself and actually stopping yourself.
And in this moment, I just couldn’t.
The way she looked at me when she turned around and saw me, all of me, without my mask, without my armor, stripped me of any control.
She didn’t cringe, she didn’t wince, she didn’t recoil with repulsion or fear or pity.
It’s like she didn’t even see the scar.
And I wanted to kiss her to thank her for it. For giving me something I haven’t felt in a long time. The feeling of being seen.
“Jade,” I moan against her lips as our kiss deepens. She responds by running her fingers through my hair and pressing her mouth harder against mine. It’s even better than the sleepy kiss from yesterday, because this time she’s awake, she knows what’s happening, and she’s responding. This time her chest is purposely pressing against mine, and this time her moans are from feeling how amazing our kiss is.
Her hand comes up between us and pushes against my chest. She pushes me away, panting for breath.
“Kaine,” she whispers between breaths.
“Sweet Jade,” I whisper back, running the back of my hand down her soft cheek.
Then the simultaneous growls of our empty stomachs break the moment.
She immediately bends over, laughing, tugging on my hand as she does, and I pull on her hand, twirling her into the circle of my arms, catching her giggling body in mine. Her laughter dies down slowly as I enjoy the feeling of finally holding her without having to worry about her well-being.
“I think our bodies are trying to tell us something,” she finally says. I raise an eyebrow in question even though she can’t see me. “It’s trying to tell us that whatever’s in the picnic basket you took out of the trunk, needs to be eaten and needs to be eaten now.”
I can’t help but let out a loud guffaw that makes her jump and she pulls away, gazing at me. I turn my face, so my right side is hidden to her. She shakes her head and lifts her finger to press gently on my chin.
“Don’t,” she whispers, “don’t ever do that again.”
I don’t know how or why, but in the course of today, something has shifted between us. An agreement, an understanding, a mutual acknowledgement that something is happening between us.
We stare at each other for a moment. And then I say, “let’s eat.”
Which is met with a round of applause.
I reluctantly let go of her hand and open the picnic basket with a flourish, pull a thick woollen blanket from its depths, and shake it out onto the ground. She kneels on the blanket, smoothing it out with her hands as I start unpacking the basket, pulling out the gourmet feasts I’d picked up at the Chelsea Market before coming to pick her up.
“Oh yes,” she moans as she watches me pull out the endless array of food, picking up each item and examining it.
“Roasted stuffed peppers, yum! Arancini. God yes, bring on the deep-fried stuff. Is this… goat stewed with sago and sweet potato? Be still my digestive system.”
I can’t help but smile at her excitement about the food. It mirrors how I feel every time I wander the aisles at the market-my secret, guilty pleasure, one of the only rare reasons I ever linger in public.
I hand her a plate and fork without looking, preoccupied with searching the basket for some champagne glasses. She laughs and taps on my hand and I look up. She’s already dug into the container of melon wrapped in prosciutto, completely without the help of utensils.
She gestures for me to open my mouth and slips a slice of melon into my tongue when I do. I catch the tip of her finger with my lips and suck gently on the tip. It tastes sweet and salty, just like the antipasto she’s fed me. And I want more.
I lean over and open my mouth again. This time she picks a stuffed olive from the small jar and pops it onto my tongue, her finger lingering this time, waiting. I roll my tongue over it, without closing my mouth, and she closes her eyes for just a brief second.
It’s like we’re two different people. Any barriers between us are completely gone.
But I have no doubt that by night’s end, I’m going to need to taste more of her than her finger.
“My turn,” she whispers huskily and she scoots over to me, her bottom lip dropping open.
“What would you like?” I ask her, because it’s safer than telling her what I’d like to do to her right now.
“Surprise me,” she says, closing her eyes.
I reach into the basket for the box I was meaning to save for dessert. It’s a small handful of maple glazed chestnuts, a French delicacy, rarely sold except during the Christmas. I’d hoarded a box at the office after a trip to Paris but now it seems the perfect time to break it open. I unwrap the sticky chestnut from the cellophane and lower it to her mouth, slowly tracing the line of her lips, letting the crystallizing glaze cling to her. Her tongue darts out, unable to contain her curiosity and she licks the almost sickly-sweet nectar from her lips. Once they’re clean, I wait for her tongue to disappear back into her mouth before I gently press the chestnut past her lips. She devours it immediately; soft moans vibrating from her throat as she savors the musky, nutty, unctuous morsel.
“Oh my god, what was that?” she finally says, her eyes lazily opening, her voice thick with satisfaction.
“That was a marron glace, a glazed chestnut,” I tell her, secretly thrilled that she enjoyed it so much.
“It was divine,” she sighs.
“Yes, it was,” I say, giving her a wink.
She giggles and reaches for some of the marinated eggplant and pops it into her mouth, licking up an errant drop of olive oil from the corner of her mouth with her tongue. Watching her makes me realize I am famished and we take turns feeding ourselves and each other until almost all the food is gone.