The Build Up (24)

“I’d love to see what you’ve done with the place,” said Porter, softly.

Was he inviting himself into my house? Listen, I wasn’t trying to have an actual “meeting in my bedroom” tonight. But dammit, Porter was making it very difficult for me to resist inviting him in. In the month I’d known him, Porter had proven to himself to be an upstanding guy. A gentleman. But they all start out as gentlemen, Ari. And in the end, even so-called gentlemen can gut you like a fish, roll you up in newspaper, and toss you out like trash. Remember?

“Oh...maybe someday soon,” I said, forcing a smile on my face and burying my thoughts. “Right now, it’s a mess. I want it to be perfect before I have guests. You’re an architect. You understand?”

I prayed that would give him the hint that I wasn’t trying to have him in any room of my house, let alone my bedroom. Or on top of my new kitchen counters. Fuck. Great. Now that thought was in my head.

“Ari, I’m not trying to come in this time of night. We’re coworkers and that would be highly unprofessional,” said Porter, sounding a little rehearsed. My radar must have been off track because I swore there was a vibe going on. Maybe he didn’t see me that way. That was somewhat of a relief. At least now I knew, without a doubt, that nothing could ever happen between us.

So why was I disappointed?

“Right! Highly unprofessional!” I said with an uncomfortable laugh, trying to dismiss the thought (well, thoughts) I had of him doing God knows what to me across my couch. And my kitchen island. And my...

“Can I at least walk you to the door? Make sure you get in safely? I mean, this is still the West Side. At 2 a.m. Gentrified or not.”

“Sure.”

Porter opened the auto locks of the door and came around to open my door.

“Again, automatic locks or not, Eloise would kill me if I didn’t open your door.” He smiled. I slid across the seat as Porter extended his hand to help me out of the car.

I tried to focus on the chirping crickets, the stillness of the night, anything to get my mind out of its lust-filled haze. We walked up my driveway, along the cobblestone steps to my house. The porch lights came on. It cast a glow on Porter that made it look like he was on a Broadway stage.

“They’re on a sensor,” I said, my voice unrecognizable.

Porter looked around, taking in the porch renovations. “You have a swing, too. That’s really cool. My grandparents had one in New Orleans. We used to watch the Mardi Gras parade from the porch.”

I looked at the swing and smiled. “Yeah, I’ve always wanted one. As a kid, my dad promised he would put one up and never got around to it. So, I did.”

I was babbling nervously. I turned my back to Porter and reached inside my tote to get my keys. My hands were shaking as I fumbled to put the key in the lock. I had to get inside this house before I did anything stupid. When I turned around, Porter was barely a foot from me. My heart pounded, mimicking the electric bass thump of damn near every song on that infernal playlist.

I took a step back, my back within centimeters of touching my front door. “Well, thanks for tonight, Porter. It was fun.” I squeaked the sentence out of my throat as fast as I could.

“I had fun too, Ari,” Porter said, softly. I watched as his eyes roamed the canvas of my face, finally landing on my lips. Oh God.

I couldn’t look at him anymore. I turned to put my key in the door, nose nearly touching the peephole. My palms were sweaty, shaky, and suddenly I’d forgotten which key was the right one.

“Ari?”

“Yes?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I continued fumbling with my keys, refusing to turn around. I could feel the soft breeze of his steady breathing on my neck. It was so warm. Fuck.

I turned around to face Porter who was now mere inches from me. I took in a gasping breath of air to steady myself.

Porter licked his lips, a flash of pink tongue darting out. “Ari, I really want to kiss you. But that would be...”

“Unprofessional,” I whispered, completing his sentence. I could smell his cologne mixed with the heady scent of beer. Its distinctly masculine scent turned me on, the wetness pooling between my legs signaling my appreciation. I wanted to kiss him. I needed to kiss him. I had to kiss this man before we both exploded. Instantly, I regretted ordering bleu cheese. Fuck, I really wish I was the girl who ordered salads on dates.

Porter came close, looking down at me. Drinking me in like I was that stout. I could feel my chest rise, my breath ragged. The ’90s playlist from the car was still playing in a loop in my head. I could hear Blackstreet’s “Before I Let You Go” as clear as a bell.

“Very unprofessional,” Porter whispered as his lips ghosted over mine.

I felt a bead of cold sweat run down my neck and into my cleavage. I shivered.

“Very,” I whispered. This was torture. Delicious torture. I was down bad.

I was a millimeter from his lips, lips that were plump, peachy, perfectly placed yet simultaneously inappropriate on his very distinguished face. I felt my pussy doing Kegels like push-ups before a championship bout.

This was a bad sign.

Porter eased toward me as my back pressed against the door. “Ari? Can I kiss you? I want to kiss you, Ari. Would you...if it wasn’t unprofessional?”

I licked my lips and swallowed. “I would kiss you...but you know...professionalism...and something else you said.” My brain had officially short-circuited.