“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.
Porter smiled, biting his bottom lip with those perfect teeth, and leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against mine. With a loud thud, I dropped my tote bag, still holding on to my keys. I wrapped my arms around his neck and fully caught up in the rapture of his kiss. His tongue found mine and after a few awkward starts, we found our rhythm. He gently bit the bottom of my lip and I moaned into his mouth. I felt his hands in my hair, gently pulling me deeper into his kiss.
“Ari,” he moaned. The way he said my name was like a song he wrote just for me.
My hands moved down and gripped his muscular back. God, he felt so incredible. Better than any daydream I’d had about him over these past weeks. This was no longer fantasy. This was very real. And very good. So good. And it had to stop. I pulled away, trying to catch my breath and regain my composure.
“I… I should go in, Porter. Choir practice and… I… Good night.” I turned to open the door.
“Ari, wait…”
Without looking at him, I quickly closed the door in Porter’s face. My legs were like jelly as I slid down the length of the door, collapsing like a pile of wet towels on the floor. I heard him whisper my name again in that sexy, melodious way of his. He softly tapped a few times as he waited for a response. Frozen, I couldn’t speak. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tune it all out. When I heard the purr of his car engine, I finally rose from the floor and turned on my living room lights.
Oh God. OhGodOhGodOhGod.
Shit. Shit.
I threw my tote bag and kicked off my heels. With my buzz long gone, I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of Shiraz. I downed the first glass, followed by another. I left the glass on the counter, opting to bring the entire bottle into the bedroom. I put the bottle on the nightstand, opening the bottom drawer of the nightstand, frantically searching for my main man, Big Papi. Yes, my vibrator named is after a big, Afro-Dominican, major league heavy hitter. One look at it and you’d realize why it was the most appropriate name.
I turned him on. C’mon and give me grand slam.
I needed something, anything, to stop me from picking up the phone, telling Porter to turn around and come finish what he started.
Chapter Ten
Ari
The thud of the wine bottle crashing to my floor jolted me out of the bed. I had hit the alarm on my phone several times and slept half the day away. Between the wine and a few rounds with Big Papi, there was no way that I could be singing about the Lord this morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, and I looked at my cell phone. I had a half-dozen missed calls, most of them from my mom and Bella. And there was one missed call from Porter.