Page 72 of The Last Good Man

Or rather about not having sex too soon.

But with him, it's more than that.

Buried deep in my head is this idea that I don’t want to screw things up with this man, and that gives me pause.

He studies my expression, and luckily, Olivia arrives with a plate of appetizers and warm dinner rolls.

“I know you said no bread, and hopefully, you’re not allergic to wheat, but maybe you want to try them. They’re delicious.”

He seems more open to the idea, admitting he is not allergic and that it is just a matter of diet.

“So you are on a diet…” I say when the hostess moves away.

He unzips his jacket and takes it off before draping it over the back of his chair. He’s like a time traveler in this beautifully conserved historical inn.

Despite all that, I’ve never seen a man more at ease in his surroundings. His adjusting capabilities are remarkable. I remember having a worse time adjusting to a new Pilates class than he has here.

And he is hungry indeed.

He invites me to taste his food, and I assure him I’m full, so he digs in.

“I got used to not eating bread when I went through some grueling workout sessions. I’m not a fan of it, but these are good,” he says, talking around his food.

His teeth look feral as he enjoys his food with a passion I rarely see in people.

He looks sorealand alive next to the men I dated, but this is not about dating him or my life before him.

He never said he wanted to date me.

He said he wanted me to give him a chance so he could teach me things.

He said he’d do it anyway, and there he is, doing it.

Teaching me things.

MELODY

I watch him sink his teeth into his steak, and I get shivers imagining him biting into my shoulder, neck, or even inner thigh.

You can call me anything. Driven, ambitious, hard-working, spunky, clever. Cutthroat when it comes to business. And even a bitch. But one thing no one can call me.

A sexually adventurous person.

On a scale from one to ten, the best sex I’ve ever had was an eight. It was good but not memorable. Passion was never in the cards for me.

I’ve never experienced it with a man.

Perhaps because I’ve always looked for a particular type who never let passion get in the way and primal needs run their lives.

Even Ellis Wilton, allegedly a player––or sociopath as Dr. Stenson likes to call him––has never been a man with deep desires.

The man in front of me seems to be carved out of passion. He haspassionto live, eat, fuck––sometimeswithpeople––and just take whatever he thinks is his.

Everything about him is intoxicating, and maybethat’s why I can’t take my eyes away from him.

He finishes his food and gulps down water.

The dining room is almost empty when he runs a napkin over his kissable lips and stretches a smile.

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