One Night 2

He grinned again. "She'll be happy someone noticed. She's my best friend's wife."

"Oh."

Those were the last words spoken between us for a while as the music picked up speed and our bodies reacted accordingly. We writhed, grinded, and swayed with a sexual fluidity I didn't think myself capable of until that very moment. Before long, the two of us were damp with sweat. Our breath came in quiet, shallow bursts as we gripped each other, our eyes dancing with an explosion of flashing neon.

"I love the way you smile," he said. "It's the very first thing I noticed."

"Thank you."

"Do you live here in London?" I asked quietly, emboldened by the alcohol and hedonistic mood. As we locked eyes, I found myself winding my arms around his neck.

"Sometimes." He dipped his head and kissed me just below the ear, pressing his lips against the soft skin at the edge of my jaw. "Do you?"

"I just moved here 4 and a half years ago" I answered, closing my eyes as he repeated the kiss on the other side, leaving a trail of raw nerve endings in his wake. "I started my own business"

He nodded silently and naughtily slipped his hands inside the back of my dress. "Does that mean I have to tuck you into bed at a certain time?"

I laughed nervously at just the thought and struggled to keep my cool. "Not at all. The night's young."

The tip of his thumb grazed my ribs, electrifying my skin and causing my heart to palpate and stutter in my chest.

"Another drink then?"

How about ten of them? To calm my nerves.

"Vodka tonic?" I said, giving a grateful nod.

He disappeared with a wink and easily found his way through the masses of gyrating people, leaving me to stare after him in a daze, still wondering if I was dreaming after all.

Okay, is this really happening? Am I awake right now? I pinched my skin discreetly between two fingernails. Did I even get off the plane? Maybe I'm passed out somewhere at JFK.

I giggled at my own foolishness, staring at the precise spot where I'd lost sight of my captivating dance partner in the crowd. I'd gone to London for a fresh start, to leave the old me behind and try something new, and he definitely qualified.

As I was pondering my good fortune, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder, and I spun around to find myself face to face with a caricature of every drunken rugby player I'd ever seen. His bugged-out eyes shamelessly devoured me from head to toe.

"Bless my eyes! It's an angel, in the flesh. What do you say, love? Care for a dance?"

For some reason, as an American, I often found myself caught off guard by the British lilt, which made everything sound a hell of a lot more charming than it actually was. Now, the living proof was standing right there in front of me, spilling that accent all over me with a whole pub's worth of cider on his breath.

"No, thank you...Chip," I answered as politely as I could, taking note of the name on crumpled ID affixed to his jacket. "I'm waiting for someone."

My refusal was plain and clear in any version of English, North American or otherwise, yet his unwelcomed hand remained. In fact, his stubby fingers actually tightened and yanked me a step closer.

"We'll make it a quick one then." A cloud of beer breath wafted into my face as he towered over me, peering down my dress. "I swear you'll like it. We can—"

"The lady said no."

The British brute released me, and I whirled around to see my dazzling savior standing behind us with a drink in each hand. Long gone was the charming smile, the playful affectation, replaced by an almost predatory gleam flashing across his face, with a chilling threat flickering in his eyes. It was truly scary that someone so gorgeous could look so equally frightening, especially considering that I'd willingly gone off with him by myself.

While Chip took a giant step back, obviously interested in self-preservation, he pulled up suddenly short, gawking openly at his face. "Oh my goodness," he said with a gasp, his jaw dropping open with sheer astonishment. "Are you—"

"Just leaving."

The drinks were pressed into the hands of two other grateful patrons just before my mystery date threw a deliberate arm around my shoulder and steered me away. I followed obediently, barely daring to glance up at him till we were back outside and on the other side of the street.

"So I guess we're leaving," I said.

"Would you care for some desert?" he asked me.

The way he was looking at me, I wasn't sure if he really meant desert, or if it was some kind of sexual innuendo.

I knew if I didn't leave this very second, there was a very high chance I was going to sleep with him. I was one of those hopeless romantics looking for love. And I didn't do fuck buddies, booty calls, or one-night stands.

But I was sure this was heading toward something. The Walk of Shame? No, the Walk of Awesome!

With a smile on my face, I turned around and followed his eyes to a little restaurant tucked into the trees behind us. It was small but fancy enough to have a valet situated out front, waving off the passing cars, and the sign in front read, "Gourmet French dining."

"Come on," he said automatically, then headed up the street without a second thought, tugging me behind him. "It looks like they're still open."

I followed for a few seconds, then dug in my heels when we got close. As willing as I was to do just about anything to prologue my time with the playful Adonis, I knew I didn't have the money for a place like that, where a simple plate would probably cost half a month's rent. Not only that, but we weren't exactly black tie; the two of us looked like we'd just come from a rave. I couldn't help but imagine the French chef from The Little Mermaid hurling cooking knives at us until we vacated the premises. "Wait." I stared up at the intimidating storefront uncertainly. "This looks really expensive, and I'm not really dressed for—"

"You're dressed for anything. You look beautiful."

All my hesitation came to a screeching halt as I stared up at him, feeling more blissfully happy than I ever had in my life. Does he really think that? He, of all people, thinks I'm the beautiful one?

"Besides," he said, grabbing my hand and urging me forward once more, "I have no intention of going in through the front..."

With the practiced skill of someone who had done it many times before, my mysterious new tour guide slipped us past security and through a pair of swinging metal doors that led directly into the kitchen.

At first, I was nervous. After all, my French wasn't all that good. Also, I was pretty sure we were in a place where no unauthorized personnel should have been. I cringed into his side, dreading our inevitable moment of capture, but when a white-aproned chef leapt out in front of us, his furious demeanor melted into a smile.

"Bonsoir, Marcel." The cook's uppity, hyper mood changed on the spot, and he rushed forward, looking utterly delighted. "Voila! Comment allez-vous?! Ca fait longtemps!" He caught my man by the face and kissed him twice on both cheeks, even going so far as to ruffle his dark hair as he ducked playfully away.

"J'ai voyage."

"Ah, oui? New York?"

"Et d'autre lieux." He grinned again before glancing down at me and reverting quickly to a language we could both understand. "Listen, Marcel, you don't happen to have any leftover dessert lying around, do you? See, we are starving, and—"

"Absolument! Un moment!"

Who would've known that my mystery man had these kinds of connections? As the chef hurried off, he turned back to me with a smile, squeezing his arm tighter around my shoulder. "Do you like crème puffs?"

I stared back in amazement, feeling more and more like I was caught in some kind of dream that made no sense at all but was the most wonderful dream of all time. "Who doesn't?" I retorted.

"You make a good point." He grinned again, then turned to accept the parcel the chef was handing to him. It was emblazoned on the side with the name of the restaurant, but judging by the swirls of chocolate and sugar, a few personal touches had clearly been added.

"Bon appetite!"

"Merci!" he said graciously, waving the parcel as he backed us to the door, still wearing that boyish grin. "A bientot!"

Then, without another word, the two of us hurried off into the night, arm in arm, with the London streetlights glistening around us, the silver moonlight nipping at our heels, and some delicious sweets tucked under the arm of a deliciously sweet man I was just getting to know.