Porter licked his lips, a flash of pink tongue darting out. “Ari, I really want to kiss you. But that would be...”
“Unprofessional,” I whispered, completing his sentence. I could smell his cologne mixed with the heady scent of beer. Its distinctly masculine scent turned me on, the wetness pooling between my legs signaling my appreciation. I wanted to kiss him. I needed to kiss him. I had to kiss this man before we both exploded. Instantly, I regretted ordering bleu cheese. Fuck, I really wish I was the girl who ordered salads on dates.
Porter came close, looking down at me. Drinking me in like I was that stout. I could feel my chest rise, my breath ragged. The ’90s playlist from the car was still playing in a loop in my head. I could hear Blackstreet’s “Before I Let You Go” as clear as a bell.
“Very unprofessional,” Porter whispered as his lips ghosted over mine.
I felt a bead of cold sweat run down my neck and into my cleavage. I shivered.
“Very,” I whispered. This was torture. Delicious torture. I was down bad.
I was a millimeter from his lips, lips that were plump, peachy, perfectly placed yet simultaneously inappropriate on his very distinguished face. I felt my pussy doing Kegels like push-ups before a championship bout.
This was a bad sign.
Porter eased toward me as my back pressed against the door. “Ari? Can I kiss you? I want to kiss you, Ari. Would you...if it wasn’t unprofessional?”
I licked my lips and swallowed. “I would kiss you...but you know...professionalism...and something else you said.” My brain had officially short-circuited.
Porter smiled, biting his bottom lip with those perfect teeth, and leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against mine. With a loud thud, I dropped my tote bag, still holding on to my keys. I wrapped my arms around his neck and fully caught up in the rapture of his kiss. His tongue found mine and after a few awkward starts, we found our rhythm. He gently bit the bottom of my lip and I moaned into his mouth. I felt his hands in my hair, gently pulling me deeper into his kiss.
“Ari,” he moaned. The way he said my name was like a song he wrote just for me.
My hands moved down and gripped his muscular back. God, he felt so incredible. Better than any daydream I’d had about him over these past weeks. This was no longer fantasy. This was very real. And very good. So good. And it had to stop. I pulled away, trying to catch my breath and regain my composure.
“I... I should go in, Porter. Choir practice and... I... Good night.” I turned to open the door.
“Ari, wait...”
Without looking at him, I quickly closed the door in Porter’s face. My legs were like jelly as I slid down the length of the door, collapsing like a pile of wet towels on the floor. I heard him whisper my name again in that sexy, melodious way of his. He softly tapped a few times as he waited for a response. Frozen, I couldn’t speak. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tune it all out. When I heard the purr of his car engine, I finally rose from the floor and turned on my living room lights.
Oh God. OhGodOhGodOhGod.
Shit. Shit.
I threw my tote bag and kicked off my heels. With my buzz long gone, I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of Shiraz. I downed the first glass, followed by another. I left the glass on the counter, opting to bring the entire bottle into the bedroom. I put the bottle on the nightstand, opening the bottom drawer of the nightstand, frantically searching for my main man, Big Papi. Yes, my vibrator named is after a big, Afro-Dominican, major league heavy hitter. One look at it and you’d realize why it was the most appropriate name.
I turned him on. C’mon and give me grand slam.
I needed something, anything, to stop me from picking up the phone, telling Porter to turn around and come finish what he started.
Chapter Ten
Ari
The thud of the wine bottle crashing to my floor jolted me out of the bed. I had hit the alarm on my phone several times and slept half the day away. Between the wine and a few rounds with Big Papi, there was no way that I could be singing about the Lord this morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, and I looked at my cell phone. I had a half-dozen missed calls, most of them from my mom and Bella. And there was one missed call from Porter.
Oh God...last night.
I rubbed my throbbing temples as thoughts of last night replayed in my mind. What on earth was I thinking? What were we thinking? I rubbed the pad of my thumb against my lips, remembering the feel of Porter’s lips on my own. Once we caught our groove, our tongues and lips met, touching, moving, and teasing as if they’d known each other’s landscapes for years. Decades even. A kiss like that, where two people melt into each other, isn’t just happenstance. I’m not one to believe in soul mates, destiny, and all that nonsense. Well, not anymore. History has proven that a kiss that good, that amazing, could only bring me heartache in the end.
I threw myself back onto the bed and felt something poking me in my back. Remembering, I threw Big Papi on the floor. I sat up, my head now ringing like a cathedral bell. You’re no longer twenty-one, Ari. I needed coffee. An IV of it preferably.
As I staggered around the kitchen, the chime of the doorbell startled me, nearly sending my coffee cup flying. Who on earth could it be this time of...? I looked at the time on the coffeemaker. It was nearing early afternoon. I was so hungover from liquor and orgasms that my agenda was escaping me. I wasn’t expecting anyone, was I? What if it was Porter? What if he wanted to finish what he started? My heart began to pound as loudly as my head, both sounds melding into a syncopated thump.
I walked to the front door and looked out the peephole. It was Mr. George, my lovely contractor, holding some blueprints and what looked like wood. Thank God! I looked at myself in the mirror next to the door. I tightened my fluffy robe around my waist, brushed my hair back and flicked the crusty boogers out of the corners of my eyes.
“Hey, Mr. George...did we have a meeting today?” I asked as I opened the door.