by Meghan Quinn
When we reach the theater, I’m reminded how small the seating area is, and how tiny the screen is. I’m sure there are home theaters bigger than this place, but I’m kind of enjoying the intimacy. Calder picks a row with only two seats in the back. He takes the seat next to the wall and lifts the arm rest so there’s nothing between us.
I see what he’s doing, getting all snuggly.
Eyeing my “stomach” he says, “Are you ready to push?”
“Will you catch the baby?”
“Gladly,” he chuckles.
Peeling my shirt up, I lift it over the “baby bump” and release the Styrofoam that Calder expertly catches by the dome so the candy is right side up and ready to be picked at. He sets the dome on the ground and says, “Look, the perfect bowl. It’s useful in so many ways.”
I have to give it to him, he’s right. The damn thing is useful. I make a mental note to tell all my friends about this idea. Sorry movie theaters, maybe lower your concession stand prices and I won’t have to be so stealth, with my fake baby bump.
“I hate how much I like this Styrofoam thing.”
“Stick with me, babe, I have so much more to show you.”
Oh damn, I hope he shows me with his tongue!
“Does it sound like I’m ordering pizza?” Bruce Willis screams into a phone, making me chuckle.
I’ve worked my way through two candy bars; I kept it respectable, because I don’t feel like gorging myself on the first date. Now the second date, I hold nothing back, but the first, I try to present myself in somewhat of a dignified manner.
Since the movie started, Calder has been very much to himself. He’s kept to his side of his seat, leaning on the opposite arm rest, and he’s been focused on the screen in front of him, not once giving me the idea that he remembers I’m on the date with him.
It’s kind of weird actually, almost as if he’s been all talk this entire time and when the moment is here, to make a move, he’s choking. It’s seriously odd.
What happened to the suave man with all the confidence? Right now, he looks like a guy who has never been on a date before, or someone who’s so infatuated with Bruce Willis that—
Oh, hold on a second . . .
Calder shifts to the side, his shoulder brushing against mine now, his eyes still trained on the screen in front of us. From the corner of my eye, I watch as his hand slowly makes its way to the edge of his thigh, where my leg is brushing against his.
Is he going to make a move?
Wanting to make it easy on him, since he seems a little nervous despite his bravado from before, I move my hand close to his but keep it on my leg, not being too bold, just in case I’m looking too far into things.
Gunshots splash across the screen, Bruce Willis looking damn good in his white tank top, trying to defeat the Christmas Eve terrorists. The room lights up from the screen, giving me a quick view of Calder’s hand moving even closer to mine.
When he said old school, he really meant old school didn’t he? I don’t think I’ve felt this kind of innocent anticipation since I was in high school and went on a date with Ricky Kingston, who took an hour to even look me in the eyes.
Holding my breath, I wait for his next move, and when his pinky reaches out and touches mine, an entire wave of euphoric heat shoots across my body. It’s a pinky touch, just a pinky, but it offers so much promise of what’s to come.
At first, he’s hesitant, his pinky barely stroking my hand, but when I turn my hand over, wanting to clasp his, he doesn’t initially take the offer.
Instead, he does something I wasn’t expecting, something that has me squirming in my seat.
Carefully, almost feather like, he starts to brush his index finger over my palm, drawing lazy, slow circles, sending chills all the way up my arms and down my spine. It’s a small movement, something that shouldn’t have such a huge affect on me, but it does. Feeling his thick finger drag over my small palm has me thinking of all the other things he could do with that digit.
Now using all his fingers, he traces his fingertips up mine. His low-cut nails barely scraping along my skin, making the pads of his fingers feel so light, so unscathed, as if he doesn’t hold a wooden stick in his hand for a living.
Up and down, up and down, his fingers sending me into a blissful state. I curve my hand around his, so my fingers touch the back of his, and that’s when he clasps my hand and rubs his thumb along my skin, turning my hand over in his and resting our connection on my thigh.
He continues his slow, methodic movements, making the movie practically unwatchable because my mind is racing, wondering what he might do next.
Did he plan this? Did he do this little round about way of getting my attention on purpose? Is he slowly seducing me, turning me into a ball of putty?
If so, he’s damn good at it. I mentally slow clap for him, because damn, I’m in all kinds of need for him.
Chapter Five
CALDER
I’m so out of my fucking element right now.
It’s been five years since I’ve truly tried to impress a girl, truly cared enough to want to make her like me, and it’s showing right now, because it’s taken me a good portion of the movie to make my first move.
Hell, I’ve been all talk up to this point. Does she even know how nervous I am right now? How apprehensive I am about every move I make? I thought about taking her hand at the beginning of the movie but chickened out. I haven’t paid attention to one second of this damn movie because I can’t stop chastising myself for being a giant pussy where this woman is concerned.
Fuck, she’s so cool, and witty, and funny. I’ve never met another woman like her, and the more I get to know her, the more I like her, making me fumble and act like a fucking teenage boy, hence the delay in hand holding. I might as well have yawned and stretched my arm over the back of her chair at the same time. That’s the kind of “game” I have at this point. Completely pathetic.
When we had Shea and I became a single dad, the thought of jumping back into the dating scene never crossed my mind, not until I met Rachel, and now I’m kind of wishing I had a little bit of practice before meeting her, at least two other dates so I could fumble over someone other than Rachel.
Biting the side of my mouth, I try to decide what do to next. This hand holding thing is nice, but I feel like I need to step up my game, especially after seeing from the corner of my eye how much my little palm tracing affected her breath. It became slightly labored as her mouth parted open in an “O” shape.
Feeling the warmth of her thigh, I figure I should just go for it, jump right into stage two of whatever the hell you call this pre-pubescent perusal I’m doing. The back of my hand is against her leg, so I casually slip my fingers away from hers and turn my hand over, placing my palm over her skinny-jean-covered leg. I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction, waiting to see if she’s going to slap me away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she places her hand on top of mine, giving me reassurance that what I’m doing is okay.
Loving the way her hand is eclipsing mine, I start rubbing the inside of her thigh with my pinky and ring finger. Her hand grips mine tightly so I immediately stop, thinking I might have pushed too far, that’s until her hand wanders over to my thigh—my upper thigh—where she rubs her palm up and down my jeans, just a few inches, but enough to have me squirming in my damn seat.
There are a few other couples in the theater, but they’re all sitting in front of us, giving us all the privacy we need. Well, not all the privacy, but enough so they don’t see the dance of wandering hands being conducted in the back row of the theater.
With every pass of her hand, it climbs higher and higher and closer to my crotch without actually touching me inappropriately, just enough to make me harder than a fucking stack of nails.
Fuck, I can’t remember the last time a woman made me this hard in a matter of seconds, like fucking seconds. One pass up my thigh and my dick is knocking against the zipper of my jeans, looking for more attent
ion.
I clear my throat and adjust myself in my seat, pushing down on my jeans because I’m really unsure of how to react. She adjusts as well, crossing her legs in my direction, her perfume wafting towards me, making me hazy with lust as John McClane shoots off his gun, acting like a total badass. It’s a weird combination, being turned on while Bruce Willis does his thing, I just hope this doesn’t turn into some Pavlov mind trick. If I start getting hard when I see Bruce Willis, I’m going to have a huge issue with that . . . no pun intended.
Hand still on my thigh, Rachel leans closer toward me so I take the opportunity to lift my arm up and around her shoulders. At first, I miss the contact of her thigh, but once she snuggles into my side, I couldn’t care less about where my hand once was.
She feels so small up against me, so petite, and fragile, the complete opposite of her personality. She’s bold and almost larger than life when you talk to her. I love the stark contradiction, it makes her that much more special.
And fuck does she smell good. Like honey and fresh mint, it’s an addicting combination that has me taking deeper breaths to soak her all in.
She continues to rub her hand along my thigh and I continue to get harder and harder with each passing second. I’m biting my bottom lip to keep myself under control when she pulls on my shirt and looks up at me. I glance her way just in time to hear her say, “Thank you for taking me out tonight.”
Smiling, I say, “Thank you for saying yes.”
Her eyes go to my lips, just as her tongue peaks out and wets her mouth.
That’s the universal sign, the open invitation for kissing, the one and only way besides saying it out loud to tell someone to kiss you.
I’m not so out of touch that I don’t understand what she’s asking, or the moves she’s making. Does she sense my hesitation, my nerves? Can she tell I’m trying to figure this all out as I go? That I’m not as suave as I wished I was?
I sure as hell hope not.
Her eyes trained on me, the movie barely even noticed by both of us, I decide to take it to the next step, and if she wants to stop me she can, but from her signals, I’m thinking this is where this night is going.
With my hand that’s not wrapped around her, I cup her cheek and inch her forward.
“Are you going to kiss me?” Her eyes search mine.
Wanting to be assertive, I don’t answer her. Instead, I lower my lips and gently caress my mouth against hers. It’s the lightest of touches, nothing overly sexual, just a general getting to know each other, gathering the lay of the land.
Soft and smooth, just what I thought she was going to be like, with a slight hint of urgency in the return of her kiss.
I pull away just as there is a huge explosion on the screen. I glance to see what’s happening when Rachel turns my head back toward hers and presses her mouth against mine, taking me slightly by surprise, but I’m quickly put at ease once her lips start exploring mine.
Demanding but sweet.
She nibbles on my lower lip, parting my mouth open just enough for her tongue to touch mine. Fuck yes.
Wanting more, I turn in my chair so I’m facing her and grip her cheeks, locking her in place, giving her no wiggle room to retreat from me, and from the way she’s leaning her entire body into mine, I’m going to assume she doesn’t want wiggle room.
The way her eyes sparkle up at me, the way her lips part ever so slightly, and the tight grip she has on my shirt is a lethal combination that has me propelling forward, diving my lips into hers.
Instinctively, her lips part and my tongue finds hers, causing us both to quietly moan to ourselves. Mouths locked, tongues tangling, hands gripping, ready to wander, this is the old-school date I was hoping for.
There is something about making out with a girl, something so innocent about it, that has my balls tightening, begging for more.
I grab one of her thighs and drag my hand around her side to her ass, where I grip it tightly. Clad in jeans, and tight as fuck, I love the feel of her ass in my palm, how firm it is, but also soft. I squeeze tightly, sending her up and off her chair for a brief second.
I can feel her smile against my mouth, the humor a total turn on for me. She inches closer and I help her until she’s straddling my lap.
Rachel is straddling my lap . . . in a movie theater, with Bruce Willis in the background.
Anyone could turn around and see the compromising position we’re in, even possibly take pictures, but I couldn’t care less at this moment. I can’t remember the last time I did anything like this in public, and it’s igniting an old flame inside of me, an adventurous flame, a throw-caution-to-the-wind kind of flame, a flame I would have kept burnt out, until Rachel came and set it on fire.
Her hands fall to my shoulders, my hands find her waist, and our lips meet in the middle as her core presses against my very aroused lap. Either she can’t tell, or she doesn’t care, because instead of making it known that she can feel just how turned on I am, her lips go back to work.
When I said I wanted a make-out session, I was hopeful at best, I didn’t think it would actually happen, but now that it is happening, I tune everything around us out and focus on one thing and one thing alone: how perfect this feels, to have Rachel pressed against me, her lips branding mine.
I’m not sure this night can get any better.
Rachel tosses the Styrofoam “belly” in the back seat and buckles up before turning toward me. When the movie ended and the lights came on, Rachel quickly scurried off my lap, leaving me harder than stone, and so damn turned on that I made her sit with me until I could calm myself enough to make the walk back to the car.
We haven’t spoken a word to each other since we left the theater and now that we’re in the car, it feels incredibly awkward that we haven’t said anything to each other.
I grip the back of my neck and say, “So . . . you’re a good kisser.”
See that ladies and gentlemen? That’s something someone who hasn’t been on the dating scene for a while would say.
It seems so lame, so immature.
Chuckling, Rachel squeezes my arm. “You’re pretty good yourself, and feeling how hard you were underneath me was a welcome little treat.”
Oh fuck, she could feel me.
Swallowing as if my throat has compressed, I ask, “Yeah, you could feel that?”
“Hard not to when it was turning me on to no end.” She bites her bottom lip. “You’re big.”
Cue the blush.
Fuck, guys should not blush, but for some reason, I fucking do. Thankfully it’s dark enough in the car that she can’t see how red I just got. I know I have a big cock and I’ve had women tell me I have a big cock before, but it was in the middle of fucking, so hearing the words spoken from someone else never truly affected me, not until now.
Awkwardly, I answer, “Uh, thank you.”
“Like . . . really big, Calder.”
I chuckle awkwardly. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“It might be, but that’s not something we have to worry about just yet.”
Damn, I wish it was.
Clearing my throat, I put my hands on the steering wheel and ask, “Are you hungry?”
“After our little make-out session back there, I would say so. What do you have in mind?”
“I have the perfect thing.”
It doesn’t take us very long to drive through the city—surprisingly—and the dating gods must love me, because I pull up to the restaurant and find a parking spot on the side of the street, only a block away. I was convinced we would be driving around for a bit, looking for a place to park.
“Is it weird that watching you parallel park is a turn on?” Rachel asks just as I turn off the vehicle.
“Um, maybe? That’s the first someone has ever said that to me. Why is it a turn on?”
She gestures to my hands. “I don’t know, but there’s something about watching your forearms flex as you turn and reverse the car. You handle big machinery
very well.”
I’m tempted to give her a cheesy joke like, “I’ve been handling big machinery my entire life,” but I refrain and hop out of the car. When I help Rachel out on her side, I catch another whiff of her scent, which just about knocks me back on the sidewalk of Philadelphia.
So fucking sweet.
So fucking addicting.
“I hope you like mac and cheese.”
Rachel links her hand with mine, the gesture calming my racing heart. Why does it feel like she was made for me? Is that weird to think so early? There’s just something about how she fits me so well, how when she was snuggled up against me in the theater, she was the perfect fit. And right now, holding her hand, it just feels so right it’s almost startling.
“Mac and cheese is one of my top-five favorite meals, along with tacos, beef stroganoff, pot stickers, and burgers.”
“Wow, you rattled those off pretty quickly.”
Leaning into me, she says, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, I like food and I’m not afraid to admit it. My dream job would be to travel the world and eat all the food while someone records all my yummy noises. Who wouldn’t want to be paid to do that?”
“Someone with IBS?” I ask, no clue as to why. Believe it or not, I’m pretty sure IBS is on the list of things you don’t talk about on a first date.
Standing tall, Rachel thinks about my suggestion. “I don’t think you could be any more correct with that response. You’re so right, IBS would ruin that job. Thankfully I don’t have to worry about that. Next time I send in an audition tape for a traveling television show on Food Network, I will be sure to heavily emphasize that I do not have IBS. I’m sure that’s a plus for them, not having someone run to the bathroom all the time, especially when filming.”
Confused, I ask, “Have you auditioned before?”
“Just once,” she answers, her fingers squeezing around mine. “I sent in an audition tape for Top Chef.”
“Oh shit, really? You must be a really good cook.”
“I’m not,” she answers, “but I thought it would be fun to apply because if you never try, you’ll never know what you can do.”
