Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
"Do you want a drink?" Patrick asks. "It doesn't have to be alcoholic."
I should resist the chemical temptation, but I need the liquid courage. "Gin and tonic."
"You sure?" he asks.
My stomach flutters. My sex pangs. My want is tinged with affection. He's concerned with my well-being.
He cares about me.
I want him to care about me.
It's different than it was with Zack. It feels real. Honest.
Because I'm different than I was with Zack. I'm giving him a chance.
And, so far, he's acing every opportunity.
My love of chai. My two-drink maximum. My inability to spend the night impromptu because I need my prescriptions.
Seriously, how are TV and film characters constantly having casual one-night stands? Do they tote their drugs in their bags along with fresh pairs of underwear?
"Just one." I motion to the booth. "Can you claim it? I need to, um… remove some items in the bathroom."
This dress is perfect. It helps that it's the nicest thing I own. Well, the nicest comfortable dress I own. Short, black, low cut, breathable.
Sexy yet practical.
And somehow perfect for this—
If I push the dress aside, I reveal my bra. If I pull it up my hips, I reveal my panties.
But I'm not going to meet him at the booth with either of those.
I find the women's bathroom in the back, lock myself in a stall, do away with my bra and panties.
While I'm here—
I pull out my cell and angle the picture just right, so I'm not totally exposed.
Snap.
I send the picture to Patrick before I lose my nerve.
He answers immediately.
Patrick: You're going to make me drop these drinks.
Imogen: Bud Light on the floor?
Patrick: Two gin and tonics.
That's kind of sweet, him ordering my drink. Or maybe it's dirty. I'm not sure anymore. I'm already losing touch with conscious thought.
He does puts me in touch with my body like this too.
That's good to know.
Patrick: Show me.
Imogen: From here?
Patrick: If you trust me with it.
I do, actually. I probably shouldn't, but I do.
I hang my purse on the hook behind me, then I angle the phone a little lower, so it's catching my lips, my jaw, my neck, my chest.
My exposed breasts.
Snap.
Again, I send before I lose my nerve.
Again, he replies right away.
Patrick: Fuck. I might come in my pants at this rate.
Imogen: That's no fun.
Patrick: I'll make it up to you.
Imogen: You ready?
Patrick: Are you?
I'm not sure.
Patrick: We can do this another way. From here.
Imogen: In the bathroom?
Patrick: At my place, separated by the wall.
Imogen: No. I want to do it here.
Patrick: Meet me at the booth.
I right my dress, gather my purse, check my reflection in the mirror. It's not too obvious I'm not wearing a bra. And, hey, no visible panty lines. That's a benefit of going commando.
The breeze between my legs makes me feel exposed in the best possible way.
This is already a five-alarm fire. How am I going to actually bare my skin in public without dying of desire?
Maybe this is what people mean by friends with benefits. We have a regular relationship. I trust him.
I apply another coat of wine-red lipstick and I step into the bar.
The room feels quieter. I can make out snippets of conversation, smashes of pool balls, the indie rock song flowing from the speakers.
And there, Patrick, sitting in the booth.
He stands and holds out his hand.
I meet him in front of the wood table.
He wraps his arm around me. "You're driving me out of my mind."
I don't know what to say, so I lean into his touch.
He slips his hand over my hip, my ass, all the way to the hem of my dress.
Without underwear, his hands are so, so close.
"Do you want the inside or the outside?" he asks.
"Inside seems safer," I say.
"Less revealing, yeah."
And less sexy, too. But safer is good. At least this first time. "Inside."
"After you." He makes space for me.
I slide into the booth.
He slides in after me.
He's close, his jean-clad leg against my bare thigh, his pine soap in my nostrils. And that smell that's him mixing with the gin and tonic and the ocean breeze and whatever cleanser the bar uses.
"Fever Tree," he says. "I asked."
"That's the good stuff." This must be good gin too. Who would waste premium tonic water on ten-dollar Trader Joe's gin?
He looks to my glass. "You don't have to drink."
"I know." I raise my gin and tonic. "But thanks for reminding me."
"Any time."
We toast. I take a long sip. Mmm. The perfect mix of bitter quinine, botanical gin, tart lime.
And it's cooling. Not cooling enough. But what could be at this point?
"How do you like it?" I take another sip.
"It doesn't taste like Pine-Sol."
"Cheap gin can."
"That was my first experience, yeah. My only experience, really."
"Is gin too British?" I ask.
"No. Maybe. I've never asked my parents."
"Are they both Irish?"
"I don't want to talk about my parents."