Page 53 of Mismatched

“That’s interesting,” he says, and now I’m sure I’ve offended him. But when I drag my gaze back up, the look in his eyes sends a jolt of heat straight to my core. “I’ve heard the body’s most powerful sex organ is the brain.”

“You’re always so informed,” I whisper.

His hand on my leg slides another fraction higher, dipping beneath the hem of my skirt. Vaguely, I’m aware of our dinners not being eaten, but my dress is suddenly so tight I can’t imagine taking another bite.

“So, you didn’t like the space I gave you last week,” he says in a quiet tone.

I shake my head, distracted by the progression of his fingers.

“I have a proposal, then.” This gets my attention. I stare up into his face, and he looks back at me, eyes hooded. “What if we try the opposite?”

I open my mouth, attempting to keep myself from panting, but one of his long, assertive fingers has parted my thighs and my heart is losing it. “Like—how?”

He leans close, nuzzling my hair. “Well, since we’re supposed to be having fun, and you apparently can’t stop thinking about me...” He smirks. “Why don’t we see what happens if we fool around every day—or at least every other.”

His hand goes still beneath my skirt. I glance nervously around, but the restaurant is crowded and loud, and no one’s paying us any attention. He’s just waiting for me, letting his hand sit there between my legs while I die a little.

“Sure. Let’s try it.”

I can’t really think past what’s happening beneath the table. What’s going on inside me. But while this feels two hundred percent better than the distance we kept last week, we’re also teetering on the edge of my comfort zone. And I’m pretty sure he knows it.

“Mr. Richie, my most powerful sex organ is going into overload,” I warn.

To my relief, Anton chuckles and withdraws his hand. He reaches into his pocket and lays a generous amount of cash on the table. I stand immediately, ignoring the bare, wet feeling between my legs as he follows me out the door. “Guess we better get your brain into bed.”

We don’t quite make it there.

Anton parks in our tiny, detached garage, and we make out like a couple of teenagers in his car before stumbling through the backyard, groping each other much the way we did earlier today. The sun is almost fully set, but the two of us are illuminated in fading pinks and reds. An orchestra of crickets has already started up their evening song, but not so loud I don’t hear Anton’s sharp intake of breath as we lose our footing and tumble to the grass.

“Whoops,” I giggle, landing on top of him, smothering his face under my chest.

He burrows his stubbly chin into my cleavage, igniting my skin, then reaches under my dress and grabs my ass, ready to hoist me back to my feet. But then he pauses.

“Actually . . . wait here.”

He slides gently out from under me, ducks quickly into the garage, and emerges a moment later with the picnic blanket from the backseat of his truck.

“The stars are beautiful tonight,” he says, looking at me and not the sky.

I shift out of the way, biting my lip as he spreads the blanket. Our backyard is tiny, with just enough room for a square of grass, some flowers, and a small patio crammed between our house and garage. But it’s surrounded by a tall privacy fence, several bushy trees, and none of the surrounding bungalows has a window with a direct view in. Plus it is almost dark.

Still, my heart pounds as he stands in the middle of the blanket, inviting me to join him. “Is this another one of your focus exercises?” I ask.

The light and shadows in the yard make his expression intense. “Is it working?”

I approach slowly, reaching for him in the fading light. Running my hands over the rifts and valleys of his torso through his button-down shirt. Down his strong, muscular arms until, tentatively, they rise up and circle my waist. His breath releases, long and slow, as his hands explore up my back, to the zipper of my dress. He begins fiddling with it, then pulls away to look at my face, asking for permission. I glance around the yard again. It’s darker now, only illuminated by the moon and a dim solar light on our garage. If anyone’s going to see me, they’d have to peer over the top of our fence.

I turn back to Anton. The obvious desire in his eyes held back only by his need for me to process and decide. If I said I wanted to stop, go in, he wouldn’t argue. We’d continue this in the privacy of our bedroom. I could get out the things I bought at Playful Pleasures, and I’m sure we’d have fun.

But something about staying, taking his lead, sends a flutter through my stomach. I’m uncomfortable, but I trust him. So, with some hesitance, I nod.

He draws the zipper down slowly, my core tightening with every inch. When the fabric hangs loose on my shoulders, I take in a deep breath for what feels like the first time in hours.

“Been dying to do this all evening,” he says, reaching for the hem. And before I can overthink, he pulls the dress over my head, leaving me in just my blue satin bra.

His face is reverent as he leans in, trailing his lips over the remaining fabric, and I shiver as he slides each strap off my shoulders. Slowly, his fingers drift behind me once more, but he straightens before tugging on the hooks, always checking in.

God. Here goes everything.

---