. . .
“Um . . .” I didn’t really know how to answer that. I was, quite frankly, shocked to hear words like that coming out of his Ivy League mouth. So I fell back on the psychology that I had learned in college. “James, I think you’re looking at this as a rejection. And because you’re not used to rejection, you’re processing it as a challenge. And that’s why you’re . . . aroused.”
His body was rigid and he was still staring straight ahead with his hands on the wheel. “The same thing happened when you ran into me in the bunny suit.”
Oh. My. God. “Well, maybe you have a fetish. Maybe you should explore that with somebody. You know, like a therapist or something.”
He finally turned his head to look at me. “Are you creaming your panties?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You said most girls would be creaming their panties if I asked them out. Are you turned on right now?”
Well, truth be told, I hadn’t been up until this conversation. But when he had said the thing about him being turned on, I did feel an instant ping down there. And there was a certain item on my body that was definitely standing at attention right now.
But I tried to lie. “Um, no. Not really.”
He continued to study me. His eyes seemed to glitter in the moonlight and he looked like something primitive and animal in the dark car.
I decided to put away Real Davie and bring back Stage Davie.
“Okay, well, I’ve got to go now.” I pasted on my noncommittal stage smile and said with as much cheeriness as I could muster, “See you around.”
At least I had managed to get out my exit line. I’d always have that, I thought, as I started to go for the door handle. But then he touched my hand.
Every nerve in my body froze. I could hear High School Davie screaming, Oh my God! Oh my God! He’s touching me!
Then his other hand came up toward my face. I jerked back, banging my head against the window.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Distantly, I could feel my head throbbing where I hit it, but I could not feel any pain. At least if you didn’t count the pain of total embarrassment.
I had thought I’d gotten over reeling back every time someone unexpectedly raised their hand near my face. I had been working for years to control it. But I guess it was like a stutter: It came back when I got too nervous. “I’m sorry,” I said again.
“Are you okay? You hit your head pretty hard.”
“Did I hurt your window?”
“Did you hurt yourself?” His eyes were filled with concern.
“No, I’m fine.” I wished he would stop looking at me like that. “I’m fine. But this is a really nice car. I hope I didn’t crack your window.”
I tried to turn around to see if I’d done any damage, but he brought his hand up again.
And this time, I held myself still. No jumping. Not even when he laid his palm against my cheek. “The window’s fine. Even if it wasn’t . . .” His eyes moved to my lips. “I don’t care about the window.”
I stopped breathing. I didn’t know what to do. I felt naked. And very afraid.
Then he kissed me. He laid his big soft lips on mine and eased his tongue into my mouth. It was gentle at first, but the longer it went on, the more his mouth insisted that this kiss was leading somewhere.
I pulled away first. Which was hard, like separating a heavy-duty magnet connection. In fact, I had to put my hands on his chest and push him away to keep him from coming after me again.
We were both breathing hard. Panting, really. And I knew that there was no way I was getting out of this car without him.
“Okay,” I said. My voice was so quiet that even I could barely hear me. “Let’s go up to my apartment.”
. . .