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The soup was gone in three swallows but left a minty tang on Fliss’s tongue that was amplified by a sip of the citrus and vanilla in the wine.
They talked about incidentals over a delicate bouquet of colorful baby lettuce leaves and sprigs of herbs arranged with edible flowers on a pureed dressing, then a main of braised duck with baby turnips and figs.
Saint seemed genuinely interested in her, asking about her taste in music and movies, where she had traveled—London and a school trip to Paris, years ago. He made her feel special, but Fliss knew that was an illusion. She washere. That was all.
It was still nice to be on a date. She had a strong sense of self and what she wanted to accomplish with her life, but she suffered certain feelings of inadequacy and lack of experience with romantic relationships.
She veered from thinking about that piece-of-dirt boyfriend she’d had back in sixth form, irritated that she was still letting him affect her, but he’d made sexuality such a complicated thing for her. At first, it had been fun and light, but soon he’d pressured her to have sex. She’d gone along with it out of insecurity with their relationship and normal adolescent curiosity, but it had been very un-special.
First times were often awkward, so she wouldn’t have had such hard feelings about it, but he’d begun telling people she’d given it up to him. Angry, she’d broken up with him only for him to spread nasty rumors that he’d broken things off because she was “the town bike.”
She’d lost friendships over it and a lot of trust in boys. For the rest of school and into uni, she had had all the typical curiosity and desires of a healthy, youthful person, but she’d also felt deeply self-conscious when she’d showed so much as a collarbone or an ankle, loath to draw sexual attention in case she’d been accused of asking for it.
Eventually, she’d begun to relax and come out of her shell again, but by then, Granny’s health had turned. Fliss had moved home, where she had fallen back into old patterns of keeping her head down. In a lot of ways, worry for Granny had tapped her out emotionally, too. There hadn’t been room for a romantic relationship, so she hadn’t pursued any.
Moving to London had been another fresh start, but between making ends meet and chasing her dreams, she didn’t have much time for a social life. Occasionally, she joined her housemates at the pub, but she’d never met a man who interested her enough to choose him over her ambitions.
Until now.
Not that Saint was likely to derail her in any way. He was the most unattainable man in dating history. It was well-documented. He was buying her dinner. That was all this was and all it would be.
She turned the tables on him, though, and learned that his parents lived in New York and that he had a penthouse there but also a home in California because he spent so much time there. He attended plays or moviepremieres. He was wired for logic and technology where she gravitated to arts and the ethereal. He traveled the globe on a monthly basis.
“We genuinely have nothing in common,” Fliss noted wryly. “I have a passport I’ve used precisely once. I renewed it when I moved to London, hoping I’d need it for work.” Surely she would be recognized as a genius and sent to Fashion Week in New York? Or, at the very least, would book herself a trip to attend?
“What about dancing?” He glanced to where couples were stepping and turning in tempo to the pianist’s romantic melody.
“Are you asking if I’m any good? Not really. I’m guessing you’re an expert?”
“I am.” He rose and held out his hand in invitation.
“At least we’re both humble,” she teased, but he had every right to his arrogance. Everything about him shortened her breath in the most delicious way.
Since when did she find a man’s hand sexy? The glimpse of his inner wrist above his wide palm and long fingers seemed like the most erotic peek of skin in the world. Fliss wanted to kiss that spot where his skin was a shade less tanned than the rest.
Warming with a blush, she set her hand in his, feeling drawn upward by an unseen force. Pulled and gathered and spun onto a cloud even though her feet weren’t yet on the dance floor.
As they arrived, Saint drew her into his arms and her body became a flame, hot and bright and insubstantial.
Then she embarrassed herself by bumping straight into him. As her curves mashed up against his firm, strong body, her stomach swooped and plummeted.
“I’m sorry! See? I’m bad at this.”
“Listen to the music. Let me lead.” His voice was low and hypnotic. “Trust me.”
She didn’t trust him. Or shouldn’t. But she had quit listening to the voice of caution and now began to feel. The piano notes filled her ears, but she could swear she heard his heartbeat at a deeper level, matching hers. All of her became synchronized to him. The breadth of his shoulders blocked out the rest of the room, making him her world. The faint trace of aftershave against his throat filled her nostrils, and his hand cradling hers sent warmth penetrating into her bloodstream.
The sure way he advanced and retreated, moving her with ease as she gave herself up to his mastery reinforced her sense of belonging to him. Of becoming an extension of him.
This is the one.
The voice that spoke wasn’t angel or devil or Granny. It was her deepest voice of intuitive knowledge. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, a fine vibration within her was harmonizing with his. Fliss gave herself up to it as they moved. Neither of them was leading or following. They were in perfect alignment.
This was how it would feel to make love with him, she understood as sensuality unfurled inside her. Natural and easy. She didn’t need her precious tarot cards to tell her he’d be good at sex, either. He’d draw her effortlessly down a path of iniquity, and she would love every second of it.
“What’s funny?” Saint murmured, making her realize he was looking at her.
“This situation. It’s very surreal to me,” she admitted, trying to hide the blush that betrayed where her thoughts had strayed. “It must be very common for you, though? Picking up women?”
