Drunk on Love

by S. L. Scott

“Don’t swear. Five years ago when I decided to find true harmony with the flowers and trees, swearing had to go. Except for roses. Those bitches love a foul mouth.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Life. The journey we’re all on to find peace in our existence. You’re what? Like forty?”

  Really? “Twenty-eight.”

  “Whoa! Your aura is a tangled mess.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re here for chocolates. You may not have known that when you walked in, but this box,” he says, pushing it forward, “will lead you to what you need.”

  “A box of chocolates?”

  “Trust me.” When I pick up the box, he adds, “That will be twenty-tree ninety-five.”

  “For chocolates?”

  “There’s a lot more in this box than the last.”

  “Whatever. Here you go and keep the change.”

  “Thanks, man, and I work on Monday if you want to do a recap of your date.”

  “How did you know I had a date?”

  “Really?” He points at my clothes.

  “Fine.” I turn for the door. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

  “After twelve. I like to sleep in.”

  I roll my eyes and head back out the door. With my arm in the air, I have one more stop to make before I meet Virginia, so I hail a cab. When I get in, I say, “Bendel’s please.”

  He eyes me in the rearview mirror, and then nods. “Fifth Avenue. You got it.”

  I walk into the store, and two ladies chatting straighten up and smile. “Can I help you?” They both ask at the same time before quick stepping around a display until they’re standing next to each other with large grins. One of their mouths tenses and she nudges the other. “My turn.”

  The other one huffs and backs away. The saleswoman approaches and this time speaks in a softer tone. “How may I assist you, sir?”

  I might be mistaken but when she says sir it sounds like a purr. I like it. A lot. “I need a gift.”

  “For your girlfriend or wife?” I swear she bats her eyelashes at me.

  But I’m too busy trying to figure out what Virginia is to me to pay much attention. “Umm . . . a friend. A lady friend. A woman friend.”

  “Lovely. I see you have Godiva Chocolates. So you’re looking for something else for a birthday orrrrr?”

  Damn, all of these questions were unexpected. “A gift because she doesn’t have any.”

  “Any?”

  “Gloves. She lost hers. So I want to get her a new pair of gloves.”

  “Right this way, sir.” While we walk from this area with the handbags displayed into another with scarves and hats, she asks, “Gloves are a very thoughtful gift for a friend, but no occasion?”

  I start saying it before I can stop myself, “Third base.”

  The saleswoman does a double take. “Well in that case, I suggest cashmere. Unless you’re planning on turning third base into some bondage in the bedroom, and then I suggest my personal favorite—leather. Either way, both are nice”

  A million excuses for my lewd behavior cross my mind, but nothing is going to take away the humiliation I feel. So I just carry on like my chemical imbalance isn’t controlling my mouth since she seems to suffer from the same disorder. “Cashmere sounds great.”

  When we reach an empty counter, she says, “Well this is odd. Let me check with Regina.”

  “Okay.” I stand there awkwardly holding my box of chocolate, but then I spot a pair hanging on a display near the front window. I make my way past two older ladies who are contemplating the life cycle of bees and using buzzing sounds to back their point. I whip around an oval table, and just as I reach the display with a mannequin atop, another lady swoops in and grabs the gloves. “I was going to get those.”

  Taken aback, the lady, about my mother’s age, says, “So am I.”

  My original saleswoman and Regina—the glove manager or would it be manager of gloves—anyway, they intervene. And when I say intervene, I mean, offer to wrap the gloves for the lady who stole them out from under me. “Wait,” I say, “do you have any other pairs? Any color. Doesn’t matter.”

  Regina responds too calmly to be trusted. “No, sir. That was our last pair. Christmas is only a week away and gloves and winter go together like, well, like gloves in winter.”

  Checking my watch, I only have forty-five minutes to get to the Flatiron District, which seems nearly impossible to do with the snow and this lady holding onto the gloves like I’m going to steal them. I decide to plead my case. “I really need those gloves. I’m begging you. I want to give them to a woman I’m meeting at a romantic restaurant in hopes to win her heart.” Wait, what? Is that what I’m doing? Oh shit. I just might be. “I got these chocolates and I’m sliding into third base with her tonight, but she lost her gloves and she has really great hands—pretty fingers that she likes to use to express herself when she talks. Solid grip—oh wait, I probably shouldn’t go into all the details. My point is, I want to protect them and keep her warm.”

  The three ladies are staring at me with that look—it’s the one of love that I see at the bar. I think they’re going to help me out when the customer with the gloves in her hands says, “I love chocolate.”

  I’m not sure what my face is saying, but she taps the box in my hands.

  Dot.

  Dot.

  Connect.

  “Ohh. You like chocolate. Do you like Godiva?”

  “I love Godiva.”

  “How about a trade?’’

  “Done.” I hand her the chocolates and she snatches them from me like I’m going to tease her and take it back.

  The soft fabric of the gloves is securely in my hands when Regina says, “Let’s go ring you up.”

  As the woman digs into the candy box, I realize the health store hipster was right. This box of chocolates led me to what I needed. Wow. My mind is kind of blown right now. I buy the gloves and shove them in my pocket before grabbing a cab to the restaurant.

  I’m late. I hate being late, but I especially did not want to be late tonight. Fortunately, Virginia is later. I’m led to our light green booth toward the back of the restaurant and seated. It’s rude to order a cocktail before the other guest has arrived, but the nerves from earlier have flocked back like seagulls on a bad hair day. That doesn’t even make sense to me. I’m convinced I’m officially broken because I met a virgin named Virginia who made me break my own rules before I had a say in the matter.

  All the chaotic thoughts and worries about having a jokeless future vanish the moment I see her. I stand beside the booth and watch her come to me with a walk that catches every guy’s eyes in the joint. Holy shit.

  Her hair is wavy-curly, hanging down past her shoulders the way I like it best. She’s got heavier eye makeup and lighter lips. The red dress hugs every curve and the thin straps highlight the beauty of her neck and shoulders. My eyes go low and damnnnn, she’s wearing shiny black heels that beg to be wrapped over my shoulders.

  My heart starts racing the second I see her smile, the smile that she’s wearing just for me. I step forward just as she reaches the table. Kissing her on her cheek, I whisper, “You are the most magnificent woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Keeping my cheek against hers, my hand runs along the curve of her waist. I want her. I want this woman more than anything I’ve ever wanted—not just sexually, but in my life, every day. Every morning. Every night. In my bed and in my heart.

  Her hands are wrapped around my back, and she whispers, “You look incredibly handsome, Hardy.”

  “Maybe we should skip dinner?”

  “No,” she replies, laughing. “I’ve wanted to eat here since it opened but it was too hard to get into. How’d you get a reservation on such short notice.”

  “Magic.”

  “And by magic, you mean connections?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hardy?”

  “Yes?”

  She
starts to squirm. “Are we going to stop hugging long enough to have dinner?”

  “Do you want to? I’m totally fine standing here holding you like this all night.”

  Laughing, she whispers, “We can do this again when we get to my apartment if you like.”

  “I would like to do that.” I release her and lean back. Her sweet smile pierces my heart. My hand gravitates to my chest and I rub.

  She winks at me. “I’ve been looking forward to this lesson since the first time we were in your office.”

  “You have?” I take her jacket and purse from her arm and slip them into the booth between us as we slide in on opposite sides. She instantly moves them to the side and scoots closer to me.

  I don’t even think she’s aware how close she’s sitting until the waiter comes by and tells us what a beautiful couple we are. She puts a few inches between us and though I’d love to make a joke about ten inches I’d like to put somewhere, I’m too busy trying to find a reason to close the distance again.

  We order wine and sit back, in no rush to order food despite being starved. I want my time with her to last as long as it can. “How was your day?” I ask.

  “I cleaned and did some shopping. I got this dress today and these shoes. I treated myself. Ever since you talked about how the other women dressed around Lowry, nothing in my wardrobe made me feel good.”

  “Does this dress?”

  “Yes. I feel pretty and in these heels, I feel tall. I like feeling powerful like that.”

  “A woman who carries herself with confidence is extremely sexy.”

  “So maybe I’m not a lost cause after all.”

  Our bottle of wine is opened and we take the time to test it. The pinot noir reminds me of her lipstick the first time I ever saw her. I’ve been craving this wine ever since. “Salut,” I say, holding my glass to hers.

  “Salut.”

  Conversation flows throughout dinner and I learn that she loves golf and yoga, but hates horseback riding because she was thrown once, and she’s willing to jog with me, but fears she won’t be able to keep up.

  She loves the snow. She loves when it rains. She hates when they mix. She has annual memberships to The New York Botanical Gardens in the Bronx and The Met and often frequents the New York City Library, but rarely goes in.

  “Why don’t you go in?” I ask, turning the stem of my wine glass between my fingers.

  “Because it hurts my heart to leave.” She tilts her head down, almost embarrassed by her admission. When she looks back up, she whispers, “It’s just too beautiful to be real.”

  My hand stops and my eyes fix on her. She asks me, “Have you ever seen something so beautiful that it takes your breath away? Tasted something so amazing that you almost can’t eat it, read a book that was so incredibly written that you’re swept away in a fictional world and never want it to end?”

  “I have,” I confess instantly. I have. You, Virginia. You.

  “I also love tacos.” Her head rolls back in delicious ecstasy and I can’t wait for it to roll back when I eat hers. “I can eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” By the happy glint in her eyes, I believe her.

  Our first course arrives and though the portions are small, they are artfully presented. Throughout dinner, our knees knock together. Nothing is said about it. Between friends or anyone else, it wouldn’t be a big deal at all but to me, it’s everything.

  The predicament I’ve found myself in is quite funny if I could step outside of being an insider to this train wreck that has become my love life. Physically, I can have this gorgeous woman any way I want her. She’s open and receptive. She trusts me with her life, her sex life at least. Emotionally though, we’re a mess of the calamitous variety.

  Does she not see how I look at her? No, putting it plain and simple. She doesn’t see how the world sees her so how could she think anyone would see her any different. Fate played her hand when she brought Virginia Ryan into my bar, and right into my life. Now it’s up to me to decide how we end. It’s time to up the ante and raise the stakes. And I know just how to do that. “Want to play?”

  “Play what?” Taking her hand in mine, I bring it down under the table. She’s quick to catch on. “You want to practice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” she says. Her voice is tentative and filled with the nerves I shed once I saw her. She glances around the room quickly and then turns back. She knows my next move, and she relinquishes her reservations. Letting me guide her, she asks, “Show me what you like?” When I rub her palm over my cock, my name comes at the top of a deep inhale, “Hardy.”

  Moving her hair behind her shoulder, I kiss her neck, then whisper, “Yes, Virginia?”

  A gulp follows and she looks at her wine. Her voice is low, timid, but her curiosity is eager like her hand as she grips me, getting a good feel. “You’re so hard.” When she finally dares to look in my eyes, she asks, “Was the appetizer an aphrodisiac?”

  “No.” My voice is clear. My eyes are focused on the beautiful woman who has completely enchanted me. “You’re my aphrodisiac, V.”

  “Be careful,” she says, a small smile gracing her stunning features. “When you say things like that I might believe you.”

  “Believe me, you turn me on so much it’s hard not to drop you down right here in the middle of this restaurant and not have my wicked way with you.”

  “Is dropping me down what you really want?”

  “No,” I answer honestly as I lean back wrapping my arm around her shoulder as she gets more than a handful.

  “What do you really want, Hardy? Tell me. Show me.” She stops rubbing and squeezes, getting a firm, controlling hold on me.

  I cover her hand again and guide her like she requested. “If I could have anything right now, I’d have your lips wrapped around my dick. I want to feel the back of your throat with the tip and have you swallow just to feel the embrace.”

  Her chest is rising and falling, a pale pink blossoming as her fingers drag slowly over her skin. “Hardy?”

  It’s getting stuffier in here, my body heated from her teasing. “What, sweetheart?”

  “I want that too.”

  “Check!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lesson Three: Aptly named—Third Base.

  “So what does third base entail?” Virginia asks on the cab ride from the restaurant.

  “What we did the first night we met. That was third base.” I don’t tell her how much I’ve missed touching her intimately, possessively, and with a purpose—to get her off, which gets me off.

  “I’ve missed that.” A sigh that’s reminiscent of a girl that has loved before whisks from her lips.

  “You missed making out?”

  “I’ve missed making out with you.”

  I lean over and kiss her because damn she just can’t say things like that without expecting me to touch her in some way. Call me a greedy bastard. What can I say? It’s been too long since I’ve been with a woman.

  Actually it’s been weeks, ever since this amazing woman walked into The Hideaway. I feel like I should send her a condolence bouquet now. Hell knows I’m going to need all the strength I can gather to not act like a baby whale discovering it’s blowhole for the first time.

  Damn bro. I shake my head at myself. I’m so broken. My humor falls flat at my feet. Even I’m not entertained by my usually amusing self. Maybe tonight will heal both me and my quick wit.

  She says, “I love kissing you.”

  “I love . . .” Eh, eh, eh. I’m not going there. She smiles as if she knows the slip that almost slid right out of my mouth.

  I pay the driver and we get out in front of a modern building surrounded by other more contemporary architecture.

  “We’re here.”

  “I sort of had you pegged for a brownstone walkup kind of girl.”

  She twirls in front of me, the wine going to her head and freeing her spirit. “I like keeping you guessing.” “That you do, my dear
. That you do.” The door is opened for us, and we walk in. “I can appreciate the modernist approach to real estate and the boom in condos that are sleek with clean lines.” What I won’t go into with her is that this building is so similar to the one I used to live in. Once I left the hustle and bustle of the city I needed to change everything and that’s when I bought my building. It was dilapidated and almost condemned for the missing windows and doors. Four stories of character and old Brooklyn history were almost demolished. I made the city a deal they couldn’t refuse and took on the project with my contractor who was working on my bar. After one and a half years of renovations, the first three floors of apartments were done. The fourth floor—my future residence should be done within the next month if the weather cooperates.

  The full floor with private elevator and an entire rooftop terrace will be all mine. Years of hard work and dreams have been sunk into my business and building a better life than I once had. I can appreciate her building with the doorman and amenities, but I don’t miss this lifestyle.

  She takes my hand and we walk through the brightly lit lobby to the stainless steel elevators. Virginia said hello to the doorman when she passed and wished the lobby clerk a good evening. It’s little things like that, small gestures that say more about the kind of person she is than the louder ploys for attention she thinks she needs to attract the asshole.

  The elevator doors open and I swing her inside and pin her to the wall. “How are you still single, Ms. Ryan?”

  “You tell me, Mr. Richard.” She glances to the buttons and says, “Twenty-three.”

  I hit the button and when the doors close, I run my nose along her neck, taking in her scent. “You’re beautiful but stubborn, intelligent but with the tiniest bit of naivety. You’re strong and defiant, sexy, and demure.” Touching her lips, I lean in and kiss the corners. “You are a siren wearing an angel’s halo. What am I going to do with you?”

  She’s almost breathless, but her hand slides around my neck, and says, “Anything you want.”

  My mouth covers hers and our lips part, our tongues engaging. Bending down just enough to find the hem of her dress under her coat, I start slowly, methodically dragging the fabric up with my hand. “I’m going to eat your p—”