But I was frozen in place. It hit me that she was wearing my sweater with nothing underneath it.
That was so hot.
Granted, it was only my sweater and not my hands against her skin, but my body reacted as if it couldn’t tell the difference. And the way she was sitting with her knees jutting out gave me a glimpse of her underwear—it was also black, and I stared at it like a middle school boy salivating over a centerfold. Were they cotton? Satin? Lace? What would they feel like beneath my fingertips? Against my lips? Under my tongue?
I swallowed hard, a groan trapped in my throat.
“Gianni?” She looked over at me, and I quickly raised my eyes to her face. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I hurried over to the kitchenette and opened another bottle of wine without even reading the label. It didn’t matter what it was—I just needed more alcohol to numb this attraction to her, this awareness of her body, so I didn’t do anything stupid.
With my back to her, I lifted the wine to my mouth and took a long drink straight from the bottle.
Round Two of Truth or Drink commenced with Ellie relaxed and mellow and me uptight and anxious—a complete reversal of our usual roles.
I started with a non-dirty question on purpose. “What smell takes you back to childhood?”
“Hmm.” She thought for a moment. “I have a crazy sensitive nose, so I can think of lots of things, but one smell I always loved was the scent that hits you when you open a fresh box of crayons.”
I laughed. “That’s so you.”
“I can’t help it. They’re all lined up and perfectly sharpened and the entire box just bursts with possibility . . .” She inhaled, her eyes closing blissfully, as if she had a brand new Crayola box in her hands and not a wineglass. “What about you?”
“Two things—the smell of Bolognese simmering will always remind me of my Great-Grandma Lupo’s house. And the smell of Middle Eastern spices always reminds me of my Lebanese grandmother’s house.”
“So it was always about food, huh?” She ate a few more M&M’s.
“A lot of that is my dad’s influence. He’d try to get me to name the herbs and spices just by smelling them. He’d make it a game.”
“I love your dad,” she said, a little dreamily.
“You do?”
Color stained her cheeks. “I just mean he’s nice. Next.”
“What do you secretly think I’d be amazing at?”
“Is that really a question? Are trying to trick me into saying I think you’d be good in bed?”
“No!” I showed her the screen. “It’s really a question. But do you think that?”
She sighed and swirled her wine in the glass. “Yes. I can’t even believe I’m saying this—I must be drunk. It’s only because of what you said about foreplay. And being patient. And asking what I like. It makes me think that you probably aren’t as self-centered in bed as I imagined you would be.”
I grinned. “So you’ve imagined it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But have you?”
She looked me right in the eye. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth fell open.
“I’ve imagined sex with pretty much every hot girl I know.”
She rolled her eyes. “God, I walked right into that one. Never mind. Give me the phone.”
I handed it over and took a drink, trying desperately to keep my eyes from straying between her legs. Did she have to sit like that? She had to be buzzed from the wine—otherwise there was no way she’d let me see London and France.
She started to giggle. “Would you trust me to pierce your ear?”
“Fuck no.”
“Why not? I’d let you pierce mine.”
“You would?”
She shrugged. “Sure. I’ve seen the way you handle sharp objects in the kitchen. You’re great with your hands.”
Our eyes met. “That’s true.”
“Moving on,” she said, clearing her throat. “Who’s your secret crush?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Come on,” she scoffed. “Everyone has a secret crush.”
“I don’t. If I like someone, I make it obvious. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s inappropriate.”
“So who’s your secret crush?”
“Your dad, obviously.”
She tried to play it off like a joke, but there was something about the way she said it that made me pause—and her cheeks were rapidly turning red. I cocked my head. “Do you have a thing for my dad?”