“You actually tried to break in to the penguin tank in the Central Park zoo?” I say, unable to keep a straight face. Flint laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“In my defense, I’d had a few beers and I’ve always loved penguins. When I was a kid, my plan was to go to Antarctica and study marine biology.” He shakes his head good-naturedly. “I thought I’d be swimming with polar bears and surfing on icebergs.”
“What stopped you? Fear of elephant seals?” I ask, taking another sip of wine.
“There aren’t any deciduous forests that far south.” I pause, wondering if this is another joke. Flint sighs. “I can’t be far from the woods. I know it makes me sound like I should be running around in a fringe jacket with a coonskin cap, but this is where my heart is.” He looks out the window, appreciating the trees that sway in the moonlight. He’s both brooding and calm; thoroughly irresistible.
I feel a twinge of sadness when he mentions how he never wants to leave this place. But I push it out of my mind. Not now, Young. Not tonight.
“I understand,” I say. I mean, sort of. I can’t be that far away from the nearest Chinese/French fusion place in the nearest city. I love trees. I just don’t love them so much I have to be right next to them all the time. Do palm trees count? I clear my throat. “So how were you not arrested and thrown into penguin snatching jail?”
“Apparently the Central Park zoo has this really experimental new policy in place for after hours. New technology, but they’re calling it ‘alarms.’” He chuckles. “The bells and whistles started blowing, and I realized I was sitting there, one leg over the fence, trying to snatch an Emperor penguin. I was planning on naming him Jeff.” Flint refills his wine glass and then mine. I do like a courteous man. “Anyway my buddies and I ran out of there as fast as we could. Only nice thing about New York is you can disappear into the crowd in no time.” He laughs again, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. I reach out and brush it away. He grabs my wrist and kisses the palm of my hand. Once, then twice, slower, while I melt under his attentive gaze.
What were we talking about?
“Oh, there are probably other nice things about the city,” I say. Flint releases me and gazes out the window, looking at the river.
“It’s a good place to meet people,” he says casually, but there’s an edge to his voice. Charlotte. Flint’s ex is the last thing I want on his mind tonight.
“That’s a good start,” I say, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “And there are other things. Traffic. Noise. People letting their dogs pee on your potted flowers.”
“The monsters,” Flint says, faking seriousness.
“There’s a lot about the country that I like,” I say, honestly. “The woods are beautiful. The air’s clean, the water’s clean, the people are friendly.” Some of them I hope to get very friendly with, thank you very much.
“That we are,” he agrees, dropping his hand below the tablecloth to find my knee. Our eyes lock, and the temperature in the room seems to rise by at least ten degrees as his fingers slip underneath the hem of my dress, teasing the sensitive skin there in small, firm circles, stroking higher and higher up my thigh until I shiver under his touch. But I don’t look away. Instead I part my legs just enough for him to brush one finger against my bare, swollen clit.
Luckily my wineglass is already empty, because I knock it over grabbing the table for support. Flint rights the glass and a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
“How fast do you think we can get out of here?” he asks, hand still under the table, between my thighs, his finger now tapping out a rhythm against the hot spot aching under his touch. He never takes his eyes from mine as he signals for the check. I worry I might come right here in the middle of this restaurant, but I don’t want him to stop.
“Not fast enough,” I whisper breathlessly, hurriedly slapping Flint’s hand away and turning totally not-suspiciously toward the window to hide my fierce blush and lust-glazed eyes from our approaching waiter. Flint actually laughs at how flustered I am, but that’s fine by me. I’m looking forward to paying him back.
This time, we’re not fumbling at each other’s clothes while we play tongue tug-of-war in an alleyway or stumble drunkenly into my apartment. The entire ride home is quiet, the air heavy and charged with the sexual tension between us. When Flint reaches for my thigh I bat him away with a smile, crossing my legs primly and informing him that he had more than enough playtime back at the restaurant. See? Payback’s a bitch.