“No, um . . . I’m not using it,” I found my voice after a few seconds. “It’s all yours.”
“Stupid,” I mentally smacked myself as the woman gave me a thankful smile and grabbed the chair to sit at another empty table. I was thinking of a way to reclaim her attention when she paused and turned back to me.
“Sorry to bother you,” she flashed another smile, and those dimples were to die for. “I’m a little lost. Can you help me out?”
“Absolutely,” I answered immediately. “What’s the problem?”
Her name was Chloe, and she was a junior, art history major at Boston College. While I didn’t get how someone could make a living off historical knowledge of art, I didn’t hold it against her. Apparently, she’d been on a week-long trip out to the Finger Lakes to take some pictures for a photography class.
“She could definitely be a model,” I concluded. Her problem was that she’d gotten lost on the way home.
“My phone died and I think I got turned around,” she finished with an apologetic shrug.
“Sounds like an adventure,” I gave her one of my own award-winning smiles. “Let’s get you back on track. I pulled out my own phone and walked her through how she could get back on I-90, which would take her all the way back to Boston.
“Thank so much,” she placed her hand on my forearm, and I felt a static shock shoot up my arm. She felt it too, and we both laughed. “I should get going, but . . .” she bit her lower lip, and her hand lingered on my arm. “I should probably eat before hitting the road.”
That was the closest I’d ever gotten to a girl asking me out, and I wasn’t going to fuck it up. “It’s on me then,” I placed my other hand on top of hers as a test, and she didn’t pull away.
I had a shit-eating grin on my face as I got up and walked up to Joe. He wiggled his bushy-white eyebrows at me, clearly having overheard the conversation with his enhanced hearing, and slid over another of my usual orders. “On the house.”
I gave the old shifter a nod of thanks and returned to what was now a date with a college hottie. The following conversations were stimulating. She told me all about Boston and all the history in the city. I was more interested in one type of history – the significance Boston played in the Revolutionary War – but it was a common interest we were able to build off of. She also covered the architecture, and of course, the sports teams. She was a die-hard Red Socks fan, and while this was Yankee country, I couldn’t stay angry at her.
She talked about her classes, what college was like, and asked me about my future plans. I lied, because a liberal-leaning artist like her definitely wasn’t on board with the WRA, or the people who worked for the enforcement agencies behind it. I told her college was on my mind, but I hadn’t decided where. She wanted to know my major, and I bullshitted something about languages.
She switched to Spanish, and I replied fluently. She seemed impressed, and then switched to French, which I knew even better. I could tell she was testing me to see if I was bullshitting her, but thankfully I’d picked something I actually knew something about.
There was something about talking in the romance languages that was lost in translation with English. I guessed that’s why European guys thought American girls were easy; spouting a few cheesy lines in French sounded a hell of a lot sexier. After a brief conversation that proved I wasn’t blowing smoke up her ass, she moved closer to me.
Next, she switched to Italian, which she wasn’t great with. My own near-fluency was only hampered by the fact I never got a chance to speak it. Either way, the look on her face said she was impressed, and the hand on my thigh told me she had other things on her mind.
I looked around and saw the place was empty. We’d talked straight past closing. Even Joe had retired to his office to give us some privacy, but there was only so much privacy we could have. Anyone walking by on Main Street could look right into the dining area.
“How about . . .” I started to suggest, but she interrupted me by grabbing my face and sticking her tongue down my throat.
I don’t know what it was, but my luck with women had gone up a thousand percent in the last day. I wondered if getting blown by a succubus left some type of cooties that made me irresistible to women, but my own ego wouldn’t let me take that seriously. “This is all me.” I told myself as Chloe dragged me to my feet.
“Yep . . . this is happening,” a thrill of excitement flared through my loins.
Of course, we weren’t about to fuck right there on the greasy tables, but the only other spot available was the bathroom down the side hall. Our minds were on the same wavelength, and while our tongues continued to do the tango, we headed in that direction. We pinballed off the walls. The feel of her body grinding up against me got me rock hard. We both shed our coats along the way, leaving them littered in the hallway. I didn’t think Joe would mind, and if he didn’t, I didn’t give a shit. Only one part of me was thinking clearly right now.
As we pushed open the door to the bathroom, I couldn’t help but appreciate how refreshing
