SERAPHINA
I change a grand total of seven times before deciding on a dress to wear out for dinner.
Extra? Fully, and I’m embracing it.
Color is the biggest sticking point. I debate between pink and black for longer than any rational person should. Eventually, I settle on the quintessential little black dress paired with my black patent Louboutins. Can’t go wrong with either.
Then I pull up Rouge’s website on my laptop and scope out the menu to ward off decision overwhelm at the table. Agonizing over my wardrobe and menu choices doesn’t leave as much buffer as I’d hoped for makeup, but I’m already dolled-up from my primping session earlier. A quick sweep of some darker eyeshadow and a bit more blush does the trick, and I’m ready with one minute to spare until we have to leave. Impressively early in my world.
Inhaling, I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. I’m nervous, likely because I don’t have a lot of experience going on actual dates. College hookups really aren’t the same thing. Even with the rapport Tyler and I have, something about this feels like a big deal.
Ugh. I’m reading too much into it. We’re supposed to be having fun together, and we are. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.
I close my bedroom door behind me and turn down the hall. Tyler is sitting in the living room with his forearms resting against his thighs, his gaze glued to a sports channel on television. Part amusing, part exasperating. He’s never not in “work” mode.
Like me, he’s also changed his clothes. It’s like he’s identified every weakness of mine and exploited it accordingly. His black dress shirt stretches across his wide shoulders, the collar left open at the very top to reveal the edges of several dark tattoos, and his sleeves rolled up halfway to reveal even more. It’s harder to see his lower half but I already know whatever he’s wearing will be perfectly tailored to every inch of the hard-earned muscles that clad his frame.
My heels click on the hardwood floor as I draw closer. He turns to look at me and freezes. The remote slips out of his hand, landing on the couch. It’s difficult to interpret the expression on his face. I like to think I’m getting a positive reaction, but I can’t be sure when he isn’t blinking. He may not even be breathing. Did I break him?
“Ty?” I prod after another couple of seconds pass.
“Huh?” His eyes rocket up to mine, his voice hoarse. “You look…” Another stretch of stunned silence follows. He runs a hand along his jaw. “If I hadn’t snagged that reservation already, there’s no way we’d be leaving this house.”
My nervousness abates, and the energy coursing through me morphs into something closer to excitement. Note to self: when he glitches, it’s a good thing.
Pushing to stand, he picks up the remote and shuts off the television. Then he angles his head, studying my feet. “I’ve never considered myself much of a shoe guy, but those are fucking hot.”
See? My Round Chick Altas never fail. I’m convinced they have magical powers.
“Selfie?” I dangle my phone between my fingers. “You’ve gotta admit, we both look good.”
He hesitates for a second before agreeing. It’s not a huge shock that he’s not a selfie kind of guy. Sometimes he’s too serious for his own good.
We end up taking a few, ranging from goofy to kissing to a standard smiling shot. The goofy one is my favorite.
Tyler’s black Audi SUV is idling in front of the house when we step outside, which is a nice touch. With as cold as it’s been lately, it would be like climbing into an igloo if he hadn’t started it ahead of time. Probably wouldn’t bother the guy who spends nearly half his life on the ice, but I appreciate not freezing to death in my dress.
He opens the passenger door for me and waits until I climb in before he shuts it, walking around to the driver’s side. I’m convinced there’s something drastically wrong with me that I nearly salivate when his large hand wraps around the leather gearshift handle. It’s like a form of competence porn, the appeal of which I can’t fully explain. All I know is, he looks like he knows what he’s doing, and it’s hot.
Same with when I watched him play on television the other night. With a father who played professional hockey and a brother on the same career trajectory, I had previously considered myself immune to the mysterious phenomenon that causes some women to swoon over hockey players. Not so. It turns out that I am very much susceptible, at least when it comes to Tyler. Seeing him out there on the ice did things to me it shouldn’t.
“You get a chance to look at the menu, Ser?” His gaze cuts to me as he slows to a stop at a red light.
My heart swells at him remembering this tiny, admittedly neurotic, detail.
“Sure did.”
He squeezes my thigh affectionately. “Good.”
The restaurant has a valet out front when we pull up. Tyler hands off the car, then steps up onto the sidewalk and slides an arm around my waist, tucking me into him as he steers me inside.
Rouge is even more impressive than I expected, stylishly decorated in dark jewel tones, upscale without being pretentious. The small space is dotted with tables of varying sizes, dim lamps and candles providing the only sources of light.
Music throbs low in the background as the hostess leads through the restaurant, Tyler’s hand resting along my back the entire way. She takes us to a small leather booth in a corner off to the back. Whoever canceled this reservation sure gave up some prime seating. It’s cozy, and the ambience is to die for.
A thoughtful look crosses his face as the hostess disappears, leaving us alone. He takes my hand beneath the table, his thumb skimming the thin skin of my inner wrist.
“What I meant to say earlier was you look beautiful, Tink.”
I don’t need a mirror to know I’m blushing. “Thank you, Hades.”
For my first Valentine’s Day with a guy and my first non-date date, the bar has been raised impossibly high.
We skim the menus while we wait, and Tyler orders a beer for himself and a glass of sauvignon blanc for me at my request. I like white wine every now and then. As much as I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to acquire a taste for red.
“Question forty.” Half a glass in, I’m feeling it ever so slightly due to the lack of food in my system. “What’s your worst habit?”
He considers for a beat. “Being too competitive.”
“You?” I tease. “Competitive?”
“More with myself than anything, but obviously with other goalies as well. It’s good fuel as long as I don’t let it get out of hand. Which does happen from time to time.”
When he looks at me expectantly, I suddenly realize I’ll have to answer too. Asking things I want to know about him cuts both ways.
“Mine’s self-sabotage. I know I do it, and I can’t seem to stop myself.” Procrastination is the worst way it manifests. Others include denial and failure to prioritize properly.
“Do you know why you do it?” There’s no judgment in his tone, only concern.
“No,” I say honestly, rubbing the crystal stem of the glass between my fingertips. “Well, maybe. It could be linked to the whole ADHD thing. I’ve read they often go hand in hand.”
Tyler looks down at the table like he’s deciding what to say, and it takes so long for him to speak that I start to worry about what it’s going to be.
“Have you ever considered hanging out with someone like Abby could be a form of that? Like putting yourself in situations where you’re not fully comfortable and trying to compensate?”
Is it? I’ve never thought about it like that before. Smaller house parties and bars like Overtime are fun, but I’m not sure I’m ever truly at ease at those crowded nightclubs and frat parties. My friends like them, so I’ve always gone along for fear of seeming boring or potentially losing friendships. Clearly not the right reason to do things, and deep down, I know that.
“Maybe…” I trail off. “How do you—how did you figure? That’s such a specific thing to say. I’m not saying I’m mad or I disagree, but it’s never occurred to me before.”
“I used to do things like that. It wasn’t exactly the same, but I didn’t cope well with the stress I was under, and I compensated in destructive ways. Which brings us back to the stress cleaning and the tattoos, like I said before.” He points to the elaborate compass inked onto his other hand. “I got this one as a reminder to myself to focus on where I want to go, not get caught in the weeds.”
That tattoo is the first thing that made his identity click for me. I love it even more now that I know what it symbolizes.
“You’re the most focused person I know, Ty.”
We’re interrupted by the server setting down our crab cakes and ahi tuna tower to start. Seafood is too hard to prepare properly at home—or at least I haven’t mastered it—but I always order it when I go out to higher-end places. And as we dive in, Rouge does not disappoint.
“Oh, god. That’s so good.” I take another bite of ahi tuna and Asian slaw, letting out a moan. It’s heaven on a fork. The fact I’m starving makes everything taste that much better.
Tyler eyes me over the rim of his glass. “You can’t make those noises, Ser.”
“Why? Getting dirty ideas?”
“Getting?” His eyes gleam with dark amusement. “More like actively trying to stop myself from acting on them.”
We talk nonstop throughout our meal, interspersed heavily with flirting and innuendo. While Tyler also seems to be enjoying the food, his attention is mostly fixed on me while we eat.
By the time we’ve ordered a dark chocolate soufflé to share for dessert, we’re both on edge.
Beneath the tablecloth, his hand creeps beneath the hem of my dress and comes to rest scandalously high on my bare thigh, fueling the anticipation that’s been simmering within me all night. He isn’t actively doing anything, but that’s the point.
If he’s going to dish it, he’d better be prepared to take it.
I slide closer to him in the booth and press my thigh to his, ensuring he can see right down the front of my low-cut dress. His gaze slowly, leisurely tracks a path down my face to the intended target, and a muscle in his jaw flexes.
“What’s wrong?” I bat my eyelashes at him.
“Tink…” he warns.
“You seem tense. Didn’t you enjoy the food?”
“Not as much as I’m going to enjoy eating your pussy when we’re done.”
A shock of desire jolts through me. If there’s any justice in this world, I’ll get to experience that at least once in my lifetime.
Tingles run down my spine as he brushes my hair away from my ear and leans in. “Remember what I said on FaceTime?”
Who could forget? Those words have been permanently imprinted in my brain. “I’m going to make you come so hard you make a dripping mess. Once I’m finished, I’m going to kiss you so you can taste how sweet you are.”
My thighs clench around his hand, which is still several inches south of where I’d like it to be. I wriggle impatiently, growing more frustrated by the second. I’ve been waiting all day for him to touch me. If he doesn’t do something soon, I might do it myself.
A teasing smirk appears on his face. “You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?”
I nod. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Then take off your panties and give them to me.”
“You want me to do that here?” I whisper, glancing around. Our table is partially shielded by one of several towering floor-to-ceiling fireplaces, and our lower bodies are concealed by the tablecloth in the way. No one is within hearing distance. “In the middle of the restaurant?”
“Or I can do it for you, but I promise I’ll be a lot less discreet.”
Tyler looks at me expectantly while I feign shyness. He thinks he has the upper hand here. Little does he know, I impulsively slipped off my underwear while I was getting dressed. Hence, no panties to give.
“Can’t. I’m not wearing any.”
Dark desire flashes across his face. He pushes my legs apart with his hand and cups my center. My back arches, my breath snagging as one broad finger slides along my soaking, heated entrance.
Warmth floods my body, and I gasp quietly. “Ty.”
As much as I wanted him to touch me, I’m not sure I can be quiet enough to let him continue.
Shadows cast across his handsome face, determination in his eyes. “Stop thinking, Ser. I’ve got you.”
Two fingers slide inside me, the sudden fullness delivering a massive dose of pleasure. Bliss rolls through my body, and I grip the edge of the table, fighting to keep my hips from rocking.
“Good girl.” He hums with approval. “You’re doing so well for me.”
His focus stays glued to me, intently watching my reaction as his fingers pump in and out, the heel of his palm rubbing my clit. My breaths turn shaky, and the rest of the room fades away.
With a few more strokes of his skilled fingers, I’m at the top of a rollercoaster staring down at the drop below. I look at him helplessly, teetering on the brink of no return.
“Just like that, baby. Show me what you’re going to do to my cock when we get home.”
White-hot pleasure crashes over me, and I bite my bottom lip to keep myself from crying out. My orgasm ebbs and flows, seemingly going on forever before it finally fades out. When it becomes too much and I’m fully sated, my hand flies to grasp his under the table, halting him.
“What do you know?” He gently withdraws his fingers and dips his head, kissing my cheek. “You came before dessert did.”
