renegade / cs55

one

the night is on your lips
🎶 temporary fix by one direction

INEZ

OUT OF all the people in the world who could claim to have never had a one night stand, Carlos Sainz is the last one I would believe. Maybe my opinion has been slightly influenced by the fact that the man is the walking representation of my dream partner—luscious, dark locks, intense mocha eyes that stare straight into your soul and unlock all of your secrets, with the body of a young Adonis.

I want to be his Aphrodite.

The moment we meet for the first time in the light of a fading sunset in Monaco, the attraction pulls at my core like a magnet. Then again, everything about the man is romantic: from the white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing toned and tanned fore arms and hands that had my knees buckling, to the soft pout of his pillowy bottom lip.

Sitting across from him at a dinner table proves to be a rather great distraction. I find myself staring at the way he has his hands folded into each other, leaning his entire upper body onto his elbows, listening intently to Eleanor as she speaks about the second instalment of her series and the contract negotiations currently happening for movie rights.

I sip at my red wine, the drops of condensation on the glass cool against the inside of my fingers as they curl around the bottom of the bowl. I have never had a one night stand. His words with their distinct Spanish accent linger in my mind as I rest the glass back on the l tablecloth, positioning it so that it covers the ring of moisture that has seeped into the white fabric over the course of the evening. The conversation I'm dwelling on has already been moved on from about ten minutes ago. Carlos was only responding to Eleanor who had jokingly offered to set him up with one of her friends for a rebound—he had coolly declined.

Ever since, I find myself assessing his body language like a woman in heat. Somehow, finding out he has never partaken in an activity that has become a biweekly custom for me over the past year has only heightened my attraction for him. I want to know what makes him tick—I want to know his weaknesses and his strengths, I want to figure out which buttons I can press and the reaction they may elicit.

In conclusion, I want him.

I tear a piece of bread from the little basket in the middle of the table and pop it into my mouth, tapping my fingernails of my other hand rhythmically against the table. The sound is dampened through the tablecloth, but it's enough to gain Carlos' attention. His interest is piqued: I can tell by the slightest curl of his lip upwards as his focus strays from the conversation.

I'm aware of how strange this situation may seem to strangers, two solitary friends at dinner with another couple. Maybe for outsiders, we are not solitary but instead a pair. A couple, too, making us two couples at a table, the kind that share a bottle of red and exchange gossip about the other couples they know. Perhaps both these couples have left their children behind with a babysitter—the children that will one day grow up to be best friends and fall in love.