I lift my head toward him. “Confident, aren’t you?”
“About things I’m good at? Yes.” He takes a step closer to me. “I’m a damn good doctor. And I’m a damn good kisser. And a shitty dancer.”
“I’ll say.”
“Is that a yes?”
I hesitate for a split-second, then nod and tilt my lips up toward his. It’s almost imperceptible, but he takes the cue, lowering his own lips nearly only mine, stopping a hairbreadth short. And then I lift my head to bridge the gap.
I had thought Dean must have oversold himself, but he has not. He puts one hand on my back to draw me closer, his other laces into my hair, and his lips and tongue do fantastic things to me. It is the best kiss I’ve ever had. No, that doesn’t express it strongly enough. It’s the best kiss I’ve ever had or could imagine ever having again for the rest of eternity. It’s the sort of kiss that makes me wonder what all those other things I’ve been having until now were, because they weren’t kisses. This is a kiss.
When our lips finally part, I’m shaking. My knees are rubber underneath me, but when I look at Dean’s face, it’s a mirror of my own. “Wow,” he breathes.
“Yeah,” I manage.
“That was…”
“Yeah.”
He brings his lips over to my ear and whispers, “There’s one other thing I’m really good at. I’d love to show you sometime.”
I’d love to see. Although if the kiss is any gauge, I’m afraid it might kill us.
_____
I could have woken up the next morning with Dean in my bed, but he was absolutely a gentleman and didn’t even suggest it. But before I left his car, I got one more incredible kiss. It took all my self-restraint not to drag him upstairs by his collar. Nonna would have cheered me on.
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he promised.
“You better,” I said.
Now last night is a just a lovely memory as I rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch my arms over my head. I look over at the empty space in the bed next to me, wishing Dean were there. I imagine him with his dark hair mussed from sleep, his muscular chest barely concealed by a thin sheet. And that tattoo, wherever it is…
Oh my, I need a cold shower.
I sit up in bed and grab my phone off the nightstand. Even though it’s still early, I’m hoping Dean has sent me a text already. He told me last night that he doesn’t play games. If I like a girl, I’m not waiting three days to call. You kidding me? I loved that about him.
Of course, that means if he doesn’t text me like he said he would, he’s not interested.
The thought of not going on another date with Dean gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. But no. He’ll text me. He said he would, and there was no mistaking the way he looked at me last night. That kiss wasn’t one-sided.
Before I have a chance to stress about it any further, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from Dean:
When can I see you again?
It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning. He must be as excited to see me again as I am to see him. My lips tingle at the thought of it.
I hesitate, unsure if I should text him back right away. I don’t want to seem overeager. Even though Dean said he doesn’t play games, it’s hard not to feel the obligation to play them.
Maybe I’ll shower and get dressed, then I’ll text him.
I’m buttoning up my blouse when my phone starts ringing. My heart leaps, assuming it’s Dean. But when I pick up the phone, the name Nick Mascolo pops up on the screen.