Page 90 of Floored (Frenched 3)
“Yes. You should.” I pulled back. “Call me on the way home, all right?”
“I will.” He squeezed my hand one last time, and I walked away.
I could have skipped to my car, I felt so light-hearted. Things were good—better than good. Better than they’d ever been, in fact.
Plus we had reunion sex ahead of us, and if that didn’t put an extra spring in anyone’s step, what would?
#
My cell phone rang after I’d been driving for about fifteen minutes.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me.” His voice sent a thrill zipping up my spine, and darting between my legs.
“Hi, you.”
“Want to get naked tonight?”
I burst out laughing. “That’s getting right to the point.”
“I can’t help it. I haven’t seen you in so long. It’s a good thing you spilled that ice water on my lap today, otherwise I’d have been fighting a hard-on for that entire lunch.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I had wet panties the moment I saw you smile at me across the room.”
“Did you really?”
“No!” I yelled. “Are you kidding? I was so nervous, I could barely walk!”
He groaned. “You’re mean. Good thing I love you.”
My heart fluttered. “Good thing.”
“Can I take you to dinner tonight? Somewhere nice?”
The last thing I wanted to do was sit through a long dinner at a nice restaurant, unable to touch him. I had a better idea, but I’d let it be a surprise. “Sure. I’ll be ready at eight.”
By seven forty-five, I was practically climbing out of my skin with anticipation. I’d been racing around for six hours straight—I bought new underwear, grocery shopped, changed the sheets, chilled some wine, stuffed a chicken, put my hair up in a twist—desperately filling the hours until I saw him again. When his car pulled in my driveway at a few minutes before the hour, I pulled open the door and raced back to the stove, as if I were innocently stirring something on the burner. In reality, the meal was on the dining room table already.
I heard the door shut and peeked over one shoulder at him. Oh dear God. He was wearing a suit. “How was your day, darling?” I asked in my most sultry voice.
He smiled, a slow sexy grin that told me he’d missed me as much as I’d missed him.
Or maybe it was because I wore nothing but a dark red lace bra and panties, high heels, and a smile.
“It just got a hell of a lot better.”
“Hungry? You’re just in time for dinner.”
His eyes traveled down to my shoes and back up, his brain exploring ideas my body could feel. “What if I want dessert first?”
“Ah ah ah,” I scolded, pulling a wine bottle from the fridge. “Follow me, please. I slaved all day,” I said, putting a little extra hip into my walk. “And if you’re nice and eat all your dinner, I’ll let you be my master later.”
One side of his mouth hooked up. “Deal.”
I led him into the candle-lit dining room, which was laid out with a feast—spinach salad with warm bacon dressing, roasted chicken and vegetables, fresh bread and butter. (In the fridge was a peach and vanilla puff pastry pie, which I’d cheated and bought at the bakery, but he didn’t need to know that.)
I let Charlie choose where he wanted to sit and poured the wine. I had classical music playing at a low volume, adding to the elegant atmosphere. In fact, between the white Irish linens, my grandmother’s china, the Waterford crystal wine glasses my mother had given me for Christmas, the candles, and Charlie’s suit, the entire scene had a sort of formal air—except for the fact that I was dining in see-through underwear.
