Page 61 of Single-Minded
His lips brush my ear, sending a current of electricity from the nape of my neck to my fingertips. “Is this too far,cher?”
“No,” I answer, “it’s not too far.”
He moves slowly, deliberately, his breath leaving a trail from my ear to just millimeters away from my mouth. I close my eyes, tasting his warm breath on my lips.
“Is this too far?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say, slowly opening my eyes.
“Okay,” he says, taking a slow step back. Gentlemanly. Good to know.
“Kidding,” I say, raising my eyebrows playfully. It takes him a second for my answer to register.
“Are you just trying to torment me?” he cracks.
“A little bit,” I reply. “Is it working?”
“A little bit.” He grins at me, and I smile back. He moves his lips toward mine again, at an achingly slow pace. This time, I watch his eyes intently as he draws near. His lips touch mine, gently at first, then he kisses me hungrily, evidence that we’ve both been waiting for something a very long time. It’s soft and urgent and tender—exactly what a kiss should be. The kind of kiss I never, ever got from Michael.
Daniel still holds me near with one of his hands behind my back, and the other clasps my hand in his and holds it close to his heart. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it softly.
“Your hands are so soft,” he says.
“All the better to…,” I tease.
He laughs and it strikes me how delightful it is that he finds so much merriment from everyday life. After my last six months, which seem so heavy, and drenched with sadness as thick as pea soup, Daniel’s inherent joie de vivre is a welcome vacation from my real life. I feel more like myself with him than I have in a really long time.
He kisses me gently on the top of my nose, my cheek, and then hesitates at my lips, in that achingly delicious limbo you feel when you know he’s about to kiss you and the anticipation is practically driving you mad, even though the limbo itself is almost as intoxicating as what’s surely to follow.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a very long time,” he says breathlessly.
“Me too,” I confess. So much for playing it cool.
“Really?” he asks playfully. “Since when?”
“Hmmm,” I say, “I’m not sure it would be professional of me to admit it.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me since the day I startled you and you fell into the bay.”
He grins, and another adorable dimple appears.
“Especially after I saw you with your shirt off,” I say, shocked at my own boldness. “You?”
“You’ll think I’m a cad if I admit it,” he says.
“So unfair,” I tease. “I told you, now it’s your turn.”
He grasps my other hand and gently pulls me towards him. “I wanted to kiss you the first time I ever saw you.”
“You mean here?” I ask.
“No.” He laughs. “At your divorce party. I thought you were stunning in a way that just knocked the wind out of me. And then I was just so awkward. You looked so sad. Of course, the timing was completely inappropriate, you’d just gotten divorced that day. I was a plus-one, and wobbly on the etiquette of asking out the hostess. And then when you walked into my restaurant, I thought maybe destiny lent a hand. I felt so at ease with you.”
“You feel at ease with everyone,” I say.
“That is the result of growing up fourth generation in a restaurant family and learning to be a host as soon as I could walk. I’m comfortable around most people, and I can get along with just about everyone—but I don’t usually feel so connected to someone I’ve just met. Do you know what I mean?”
