Twenty-seven ~ Temptation

On Saturday, Mia's point rang increasingly true. It felt like a date. It was ironic, really; the whole purpose of this evening was to ease any potential awkwardness between us—yet as I stood in front of my mirror, examining the seventh outfit I'd tried on so far, the nerves whirred through my veins.

That in mind, I decided upon the first combination I'd chosen, opting for the logic that I should trust my instincts. And after all, it didn't matter because this wasn't a date. Shimmying back into my ivory lace shorts, and then pulling a plain chiffon cami over my head, I hurried to find a pair of shoes that would match.

With neither of us wanting to face my mother, we'd agreed to meet at the bottom of the driveway. Brent was already there and turned around upon hearing the crunch of my sandals against the loose gravel. 

I couldn't help but do a quick assessment of his attire, trying to work out how much effort he'd gone to. Wearing beige chinos and a navy-blue shirt, he looked smart. Smart equalled effort, surely? Especially for someone who spent most of their time in swim shorts.

"You look nice," he said, catching me off guard as we started the stroll towards town.

"Oh. Thanks. So do you."

"I always wonder if people mean it when they say that," he replied, "or if it's just an automatic response to return the compliment."

Truthfully, it had been an automatic response, but that didn't make it any less true.

"Well, I can't speak for everyone else, but I certainly meant it."

Just as I looked up to gauge his reaction, he happened to glance down at me. I smiled, and the edges of his mouth curved upwards. Did this count as flirting? Not the best start to our not-a-date date, if so.

"So, where do you fancy going?" I asked. "Did you have somewhere in mind?"

"I hear you once paid your way into getting served while out with Mia. Let's avoid there. I refuse to be emasculated by you."

"Let's hope you can hold your alcohol, then," I shot back.

"Actually, now you mention it, I've never seen you drunk before..."

I sighed at his jibe. "That's your comeback for everything. Get some new material..."

"Maybe I'll get some tonight."

Awkward pause.

"Material," he added with haste. "Some new material."

"I knew what you meant," I said equally quickly.

We fell into silence, the only noise being the rhythm of our footsteps against the pavement. Despite it being a Saturday night in the height of summer, only a few other people milled about the town. London would be heaving. Granted, the two places had limited traits in common.

"So, have you lived here all your life?" I asked, deciding to broach the topic.

I knew so little about him, and yet I'd never felt able to ask, despite his past clearly shaping him into the person he was today.

"Yeah."

At that moment, he wrapped his fingers around my wrist to—quite literally—grab my attention. My heart leapt at the sudden contact, his touch an instant reminder of my birthday kiss. Almost as fast as he'd touched me, he let go, as if realising that could be misconstrued, too.

"Um, this is a good place," he said, nodding his chin towards the building in front of us.

Despite the quiet streets, inside the bar bustled with activity, yet without being too noisy. Nothing was worse than having to shout to make yourself heard—especially when we were supposed to be using this evening to talk.

Brent asked what I wanted to drink, and it occurred to me that there'd be no sharing wine like Mia and I did. Brent was no wine drinker. When I said white wine, though, I didn't expect him to order an entire bottle.

"No, I won't be able to finish that." My hand shot out to his arm, worrying he'd misunderstood me and trying to get his attention in the same way he'd done earlier.

"I'm sure you'll manage," he said, not reacting to my fingers curling around his forearm muscles.

He told me he was paying in an assertive manner, letting me know it wasn't up for debate. I accepted this and thanked him, noting how far we'd come after how many problems money had caused us in the past.

"Cheers," he said, knocking the neck of his bottle against my glass once we'd found a place to sit down.

For the most part, I led the conversation, but as he finished his first beer and moved onto his second, he began to relax, and the discussion became more balanced. 

He asked a lot of questions, which I answered in as much detail as I could, knowing that made him most comfortable. However, when the opportunity presented itself—while he was taking a long gulp of beer—I leapt in with my own question.

"So, did you go to university? College? Whatever you guys call it?"

He swallowed and shook his head. "No. I wasn't the academic type."

I frowned. "Really? You don't come across that way."

His lips curled into a small smirk. "Are you being serious?"

"Yes. You need to give yourself more credit."

He swirled the liquid around in his bottle as his gaze met mine, maybe trying to decipher if I was being honest again or just polite.

For a guy who seemed so confident, I was learning that Brent harboured many insecurities. Then again, where would he build confidence? He presumably lived alone with no family to support him and express their pride. His career was a solitary one where he could go weeks or months without seeing anyone but his friends. He'd lost his brother and blamed himself for it.

No wonder he'd reacted so dramatically to my lack of gratitude that day. For the first time in goodness knows how long, he'd done his job: he'd saved someone. And what thanks did he get? None.

"What?" he asked. "You're staring at me."

Smiling, I shook my head. "Sorry. I was a million miles away."

I took a sip of wine, then set my glass down onto the table. Brent immediately topped it up, filling past the halfway mark.

"I hope everything's forgiven from that time when you saved me."

He glanced up, his brow furrowed. "Of course. Not that you'd think it since you keep bringing it up..."

"I feel like I don't know you very well," I said. "And every day, I'm learning a tiny bit more about you. The more I learn, the more I understand why you reacted in the way you did. I suppose it refreshes my guilt each time."

"I've learned enough about you to know you wouldn't have been as ungrateful as it came across. Let's forget it. It's not something I enjoy thinking about."

As the evening progressed, I found it easier and easier to get through the bottle. Brent knocked back the beers, too, and I'd lost track of how many he'd drunk.

The bar grew busier, and the music increased in volume to keep with the developing atmosphere. When Brent said something that I couldn't catch because of the noisier environment, I leaned across the table for a better shot at hearing.

"I said, have you text Mia?" His voice was closer to my ear, breath tickling me.

Confused by his question, I shook my head and relaxed back into my seat again. "No, why?"

He didn't hear me this time. I'd worried about this happening, but at least we had both settled down into the evening—and we were drunk, which always helped ease the awkwardness of difficult conversations.

Not willing to let it go on much longer, though, I rose and moved around to his side of the table, gesturing for him to shift along a chair so I could sit down.

"I can't hear you over there," I said, sitting down on the warm seat he'd just vacated.

"Any excuse to get closer."

"We can continue shouting at each other if you'd prefer?" I raised my eyebrows.

He mirrored my expression and cupped his hand behind his ear, tilting his head closer. "Sorry, what was that? Didn't catch it."

Although evidently teasing, I played along. Smiling in amusement, I moved my mouth to his ear as my hand strayed to his thigh, resting there as I spoke.

"I said we can continue shouting at each other if you'd prefer. Now, what were you saying about Mia?"

He laughed, a deep chortle that didn't help my flirtatious state of mind. I reclined away from him a touch, hoping the distance would set me back on track, and dragged my hand onto my own leg.

"All I said was that I assumed that's what you'd do," he replied. "Girls always update each other..."

"Well, on dates perhaps..."

His lips twitched. "Ah. That explains why you didn't, then. Since this isn't a date."

"Do you know what I've realised?" I said. "You get a lot chattier when you're drunk."

"Just trying my best to keep up with you."

"You're doing a good job." I wound my fingers around the stem of my glass and leaned back into my chair.

Brent then jerked his head towards the empty wine bottle. "I see you had no problem drinking that wine all by yourself."

"Just doing my best to keep up with you," I replied, throwing his own words back at him with a playful smirk.

"Well, you're doing a good job."

We laughed, and it was nice. Why had I stressed over this? There was nothing remotely awkward about it. The conversation flowed, Brent laughed, I buzzed from the wine... It was an ideal night.

"Laughing suits you," I said.

"It suits me?" He raised a curious eyebrow.

I nodded. "You should do it more often."

"Maybe you should make me laugh more, then."

"I would if I knew how to get through to you," I said. I tapped at his chest. "You've got a rather hard shell that's difficult to crack."

He smiled, amused by some part of my sentence, and closed his large hand around my prodding fingers. At a deliberately slow pace, he eased our intertwined hands from his chest to my leg, resting them on my bare thigh below the hem of my shorts.

"You're having real trouble keeping your hands to yourself tonight," he said.

Heart thumping, I cast my eyes downward. Brent's long, tanned fingers rested teasingly near to the part of my body that thrummed with anticipation. 

I kept my focus trained on my lap, not daring to peer up at him. With his face so close to mine, and my mind already fantasising, I would struggle to maintain control. One look at those dark eyes and full lips would be enough to tempt me into reliving our steamy kiss on the beach.

He was right; I had been touching him a lot. Not all of it had been in a knowingly flirtatious way, but sub-consciously it may have been. Brent had made it clear this wasn't a date, but I was dipping my toe over the line and threatening to stray into dangerous territory—just like at the beach. Ignoring the rules. Pushing the boundaries.

"You know, you're right, I'm sorry—"

My words were muffled when Brent's spare hand cupped my face and tilted it up towards his, his mouth enveloping mine. Assertive from the start, the kiss bore no hesitation or cautiousness. With a firm technique, Brent kissed me like he meant it and I obliged, my head spinning as my lips worked feverishly against his. When his tongue brushed against mine, butterflies exploded in my stomach, heating travelling southwards and pooling between my legs.

Every other thought disintegrated into dust, replaced only by those of Brent's body. His fingers gripping my thigh. His warm tongue sweeping into my mouth. His lips damp and soft, yet urgent against my own.

"Back to mine?" he then murmured against my mouth.

"Yes," I said, without a second thought. 

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