Be My One Regret

be my 1 regret / 11

SWOONING STILL.....it's a magical thing until it's trampled to death.....

Only an hour into the dinner, and I'm eating out of his hand.

Okay, not literally. But still.

The ambiance of the restaurant Baz Bass picked was sensual. Italian, my favorite. With a perfect pairing wine list, my second favorite. There's dim lighting only that flickers off dark wood walls.  A small live quartet of cellos croon romantically in the center by a small fountain. The Frank Sinatra classic flows from their strings low, light, and in-the-mood making.  The tables are small, quaint. Set up for two guests only. It's flirtatious and cozy, on purpose. And I love that ours was set up to the side of a fireplace. And as the soft glow flames, it's not as hot as the goose pimples that scourge up and down the inside of my legs.

But it's not just the place that's rousing me. It's him. Everything about him. He's cocky yet not cocky. Funny. Charming. Calming and warm. Like a favorite blanket. And his conversation was anything but self centered. It's flawlessly light  and easy to listen to him. And I feel safe to share in return. Maybe sharing more than I should, but I do it anyway. There's no pressure. No awkwardness. Just him. And me. And nothing else. Like we were the only two people left on the planet.

Yet, as we sillily joke over wine and bread sticks, I'm increasingly famished for more. Licking up his every word. Feasting on his eyes, his body, his dimples. Starving for another deep chuckle at my neck. Relishing his large hands to slide down my waist and grab hold of my hips. Craving the curve of his hard, five o'clock shadow jawline to rub against my inner thigh. Satisfying my need. Fulfilling my every desire. Delighting in his scent, body, and mouth. Surrounding me. Over me. Under me. On me.

Good Gawd! I so want to wear a Baltazar Bass. 

Sudden quivers ache and throb in so many directions at once. Heat flares. flames. And doesn't stop. I bite back a whimper and shift in my chair.

Oh, shit, Tanner was right. Baz Bass was skillful. Like a fung fu master of all things sex. And gawd, I need sex. What's it been? A month? Two months? Shit, no wonder my lady parts are practically sitting up and begging for this guy to throw me a bone. 

Shit, a bone. Boner. Sex. Yes, please, arf, arf!

Damn it! Subject change. And now Fi, oh my gawd now!

Inhaling sharply, I fluff my hair and clear the dry clot in my throat. "So, Baz, do you have family in town? Or is it just you and Cleo?"

I half groan at my lame questions. But thank God, it works. The heat relents. Immediately, like I just took a cold shower. But it's only momentary until Baz reaches over and touches my trembling hand. His lips quirk to the side. "Ophelia, do I make you nervous?"

"Um..." I flush almost faint as the warmth of his large hand covers mine and squeezes lightly, playfully. I simper out thru a smile. "I...um...no. I'm not. I just, well, it's been awhile since I've..."

"Been on a date?" His fingers trace small circles over the top of my hand and I try not to giggle like a dating virgin. He lifts my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss across my skin. The gesture sails me back into a tailspin of lust. I gulp and he grins. "So, Ophelia, how long has it been? I hate to admit this, and I promise, I'm not trying to snoop, but Cleo says you don't actually go out much. Are you selective about guys? And if so, should I be relieved that I made the cut?"

The shimmer in his smiling blues slay me, and I sigh before I can stop myself. "There's no waiting list if that's what you're asking."

"Oh really?" The sparkling blue of his irises darkens as he stares at me. A devilish smirk trips the corner of his mouth upward. "Ophelia, do you like desserts?"