Cosy
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Okay. I know what I’m doing. I’m using food suggestively, and of course Griffin is taking it as an invitation to get closer, because it is one. It makes me feel both juvenile and powerful in some strange way. He moves from his side of the booth to mine. Here’s the thing about older guys, as a general rule, they know what they’re doing. They’ve been down the dating road before. They know how to work it.
Griffin could have picked me up in his sweet car and taken me out to some fancy restaurant where he’d buy an expensive bottle of wine—which I wouldn’t appreciate at all since the only wine I usually drink is in cooler form—and I’d be expected to order some expensive meal, eat a few bites, and pretend I was full. Then after dinner he’d take me back to his place for a drink, and I’d get naked. At least that’s how I imagined it would go. So I took control of this date and made it alcohol- and pretention-free.
I knew Griffin was older before I said yes to going out with him. He had a five o’clock shadow at two in the afternoon the first time I met him. Most guys my age are lucky if they can grow a half-assed ’stache.
I’m twenty-two, and the oldest guy I’ve dated was four years older than me and still in college because he couldn’t figure out what he wanted to do with his life. At least that was his excuse.
He also worked at a nightclub three times a week and did a lot of recreational drugs. I’m not sure he was ever destined to graduate. Older men are more my sister’s speed. Although, Griffin would be on the low end of her dating age. Usually her boyfriends are approaching sugar-daddy status. They’re rarely less than fifteen years older, drive expensive cars, and boast padded bank accounts.
Nevah is the queen of stringing along loaded assholes until either she gets bored, they want more, or they stop spending money on her and providing her with a place to live. It’s a pretty shallow existence, but then Nev doesn’t like to do a lot of depth.
I, on the other hand, consider myself a free spirit. Not free with my vagina, but free to do as I please when I please. Relationships tie you down, and make you accountable to someone else, which is not what I want at this stage in my life. So normally I’d shut down a guy like Griffin. In fact, I had every intention of doing that when I came here for this ridiculous date.
But he’s really damn hot. And he’s actually fun to talk to, so here I am, tucked into the booth, his bulging bicep rubbing against my arm as he steals the spoon and takes a massive bite of the sundae we’re apparently sharing with a single utensil.
He doesn’t look old. Not that thirty-three is old, but the decade that separates us feels like a significant amount of life experience I don’t have yet. Regardless, he’s only here for a few months, and I’m sure all he wants is someone with perky boobs and an in-depth knowledge of sex toys to pass the time with.
I’m willing to give him at least one more shot. Then I’ll reevaluate my position. Which will not be under him, tonight, for anyone wondering. I don’t give it up after the first date. Doesn’t mean I can’t have fun with him, though.
I dip the cherry into the whipped cream and pop it back into my mouth. I’m very aware Griffin is watching me. I can feel his eyes on my mouth. So I turn, slowly, and pull it out with a pop.
He grabs the cherry dangling from my fingers, frees it from the stem, and tosses it into his mouth, biting down with a cheeky grin.
“Hey! I was going to eat that.”
He leans in and lowers his voice, eyes intense, but he’s still wearing the hint of a smile. “You were being obscene. This is a family establishment.”
I consider arguing, but he’s right. I was purposely being inappropriate, and there’s a family of four sitting two tables over with a tween boy who keeps looking over here, and his face is beet red.
Griffin refuses to relinquish the spoon and insists on feeding me bites of the sundae. I humor him until he starts pulling the spoon away when it’s half an inch from my mouth so he can eat it instead. After that, I steal it back and purposely miss his mouth more than once.
“You have terrible aim; you should give that spoon back.” He drags his tongue across his top lip, licking away my sad attempts at feeding him. I wonder what it would be like to have him eat ice cream off of me. Messy probably, and sticky. And fun.
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” he asks.
“You don’t seem like you take yourself too seriously.”
He stretches his arm across the back of the seat. I can see his hand in my peripheral vision, close to my shoulder but not touching. “I have to be serious all day at work. I prefer to be the opposite of serious when I’m not making important decisions that could potentially cost my family a lot of money should I choose the wrong course of action.”
I feel like he’s given me a very clear glimpse into who he is under the smile and the gorgeous face and the very nice body, so I press for more. “Do you have to do that a lot? Make important decisions?”
“It’s a significant part of my job.” His expression turns mirthful. “Do you always have terrible aim, or is that just for my benefit?”
“It’s totally for your benefit. And really, if you wanted to stop me you could. I mean look at that.” I poke his bicep and flex my own. “Pretty sure you’d beat me in an arm wrestling competition, so it’s obvious you enjoy wearing ice cream as much as you enjoy eating it.”
He wraps his hand around my bicep. I’m wiry, so his fingers touch each other as he gives it a gentle squeeze. “I enjoy you.” He’s still sort of smiling, but his voice is low and gravely, and there’s heat in his eyes. The kind that makes my tummy flutter and my palms instantly damp.
He releases my arm, fingers dragging softly down my forearm in a way that causes desire to spark and warm me from the inside. I can’t seem to look away from his heavy gaze. At least until he steals the spoon back and shouts his victory, drawing the attention of a table of teens nearby.
We eat the rest of the sundae and talk about our favorite places to visit. I’ve never been outside the US, but Griffin has been almost everywhere. He’s even spent time in China, which is definitely on my bucket list, along with Australia, the entirety of Europe, and parts of South America.
We stay for so long that the dinner rush ends and the kids who play soccer at the field close by flood the diner after a game. They’re loud and obnoxious, so as much as I like talking to Griffin, it’s impossible to hear each other over their shrieking.
“Can I drive you home?” Griffin asks as we step out into the dusky evening.
“You don’t need to do that. I only live a few blocks away.” I gesture in the general direction of my apartment and adjust my backpack.
Griffin slips his hands into his pockets and looks around at the low-rise apartments and small, run-down businesses in this area. It’s not glitzy like the Strip, more like a typical street in middle-class anywhere USA. “It’s getting dark. I’d feel a lot better if I could get you home safely. If you’re concerned about my driving skills, I’m more than happy to walk you.”
I look down at my feet. The wedges weren’t intentional. My flip-flops broke on the way to STW this afternoon, so I’ve been stuck in these stupid shoes all day, and walking home in them isn’t appealing since I already have a blister on my heel and another on my big toe.
“I guess you could drive me. If you don’t mind.”
Griffin’s smile makes my insides all melty. He places a warm, wide palm on my low back, thumb brushing back and forth over the exposed skin between my shorts and the bottom of my slightly too-short tank, causing goose bumps to rise along my arms despite it still being at least seventy-five degrees.
Growing up in Vegas, I’ve seen a lot of nice cars. I’ve also watched my sister get in and out of plenty of them, but the only time I’ve been in anything nicer than a Toyota Corolla was when we rented a limo for senior prom.
“Is this yours?” I gently skim a finger along the body, appreciating the sleek lines. It has a Nevada license plate.
“It’s a corporate car.”
It must be one hell of a company to finance a sports car like this when he’s only here for a few months. The car beeps and Griffin opens the passenger door for me. He slips his finger under my backpack strap—I’m almost embarrassed that I didn’t think to bring one of those giant purses instead—and carefully sets it behind the passenger seat. Griffin holds out his hand, so I slap it, like a wonky low-five.
His grin widens. “The car is low, I’m trying to be chivalrous by offering you my assistance.”
“Ooooh, wow, that’s a fifty-cent word.” I place my palm in his. “Thanks for your chivalry, kind sir.”
His skin is soft and smooth and warm. His hand is also really freaking big compared to mine. It makes me wonder if that whole big feet and big hands thing might have some truth to it. Not that I plan to find out tonight.
He places his free hand behind my head so I don’t hit it on the side of the car while I fold myself into the passenger seat. The interior smells like new car and his cologne.
I sink into the buttery leather, running my palm over the seat, taking in all the dials on the dash. It’s nice inside, but it seems small for someone as big as Griffin. He still manages to fold himself into the driver’s seat without difficulty.
Music filters through the stereo when he starts the car, making my seat vibrate. It’s old-school rock, stuff I got into during my teen years while everyone else was freaking out over boy bands.
“Is this okay? Feel free to change the station.” Griffin turns it down so we don’t have to yell at each other to talk.
I give him my address, which he recites into his GPS. I’m literally a five-minute drive away, and that’s if we get stopped at the three traffic lights, which is exactly what happens.
The car is a standard, so I get to watch the muscles in his forearm flex every time he downshifts as we approach a light. We’re a couple of minutes away from my apartment, which also means we’re almost at the end of our date. End-of-date protocol often means a goodnight kiss.
And I’ve eaten onions. Lots of them. What the hell was I thinking? I feel around in my shorts pocket, hoping I have a random stick of gum. I find a tiny square packet and pull it out, along with an old tissue. I shove that back in my pocket and sigh with relief as I carefully open the Listerine Pocketpak. There’s one strip left. I pop it in my mouth, wishing I had water since my mouth is dry and I’m suddenly super nervous.
Griffin pulls up in front of my apartment building. I swallow a bunch of times, trying to get the strip to dissolve on my tongue and glance out the tinted window, seeing it from his perspective. I don’t live in a bad part of town, but I sure as hell wouldn’t leave this car sitting out here for any length of time unless I wanted it keyed or stripped down.
Griffin shifts into park and turns to me, one hand resting on the back of my seat near the headrest. “I had a great time, Cosy.”
“Me too. Thanks for dinner.” I tried to fork over my share, but he was quick on the credit card draw.
“It was my pleasure.” He leans in the tiniest bit, a nonverbal cue that he’s going in for a kiss.
I mirror the movement, giving him the go ahead. My stomach flutters in anticipation. I exhale slowly through my nose. Even though the Listerine strip should be doing its job to mask the onions, I don’t want to ruin the moment by breathing that in his face.
His fingertips skim my jaw, and I close my eyes. And then his lips brush my cheek. I wait for them to move a couple of inches to the right, but after what feels like a lot of seconds—and is probably only a few—I crack a lid.
Griffin is still close, a wry smile on his lips and a smolder in his eyes.
“Seriously, that’s it? A kiss on the cheek?”
His smile widens, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. He’s nothing like the guys I usually end up on dates with. College boys don’t take things slow. If I were out with one of the guys from school, I’d be sitting in a beat-up Civic with some stupid music playing, and he’d be all over me with his tongue halfway down my throat, copping a feel.
“I thought all the onions you ate were the equivalent to garlic for vampires.” Griffin fingers my hair near my shoulder. I’d really like him to finger something else. Wait. I mean I’d like to feel his hands on me. Not in my pants. Okay, maybe I’d like them in my pants, but not after date number one.
“I wasn’t thinking, and I really like onions. A lot. In hindsight, it’s not a great date food. I feel kinda dumb. And I guess at first I wasn’t so sure about you. How was I supposed to know you’d actually be kind of normalish?”
“Normalish?”
“Well, you drink club soda on purpose, so you can’t be all there.” I tap his temple.
Griffin circles my wrist with his fingers and drops his head, lips brushing over my knuckle. “We can’t all be perfect, now, can we?”
“I suppose not, and perfect is boring.”
“That it is.” He hums against my skin, and I feel it through my entire body. “I would like to try that kiss again, if you’re still interested.”
Oh my God, he’s actually asking permission, but in a way that isn’t awkward. Instead, it’s sexy and it makes me feel like I’m in control. “I’m still interested.”
He presses his lips to the back of my hand, then flips it over and touches them to the inside of my wrist, sending a shockwave of pleasure through my entire body. Literally, it’s like I’ve been struck by a lightning rod of lust.
Ever so slowly, he drags his fingers along my arm and over my shoulder until they glide up the side of my neck. Trailing along my jaw, he tips my chin up. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
I don’t have a chance to respond, which is probably good because my answer would’ve been snarky. Nev is beautiful, I’m what people call “striking”—which means there’s something slightly off about my face, but it’s hard to pinpoint what it is. Our lips brush, a whisper of touch before they disappear again. I’m about to crack a lid when they press against mine, firmly this time.
His fingers slide along the edge of my jaw, and he angles my head slightly, tipping his own in the opposite direction. My stomach does that weird somersaulting thing I’ve always read about, but has never happened to me personally until now, and then he pulls my bottom lip between his, lighting off a crate of fireworks inside my body. I can actually hear them going off in my head. Or maybe that’s someone lighting actual firecrackers at the park down the street. Regardless, I like it. He repeats the same action with my top lip and then, finally, his tongue dips inside my mouth.
I have a moment of panic that the onions are going to overpower the mint, but my worries vaporize as his tongue finds mine. It’s like a dance, a twirl and twine, soft and slow and sweet, at first, anyway.
I push closer and ease a hand over his hard chest until I reach the hot skin of his neck. I feel the steady pulse in his throat, beating hard and heavy. It’s me that’s causing that reaction, and the knowledge bolsters my confidence. I skim the rough stubble along his jaw, and I rest my palm there so I can still feel his pulse hammering against it. He makes a low sound and angles my head even more, so he can go deeper.
My toes curl when he sucks on my tongue, and I moan into his mouth. My entire body hums like a radio searching for frequency, and if we weren’t in a tiny sports car, there’s a very good chance I’d glue myself to the front of his body so we could kiss like this forever. I’m unsure if I’m disappointed or relieved I can’t act on that impulse.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both panting. His eyes roam my face and fall back to my lips, which I lick.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and comes back in for another kiss, this one lasting just as long as the first, but with none of the initial lead up and all of the intensity of the last one. I’m not sure exactly how long it goes on for, but by the time he pulls back again, there’s a pulse below my waist I’m going to have to take care of when I get up to my apartment.
For a moment, or several moments, I consider inviting him up. But then I remember that my sister is still crashing on my couch, and that’s a whole level of awkward I don’t need. Especially on a first date. Also, I doubt Griffin has done the roommate thing in a lot of years, and I would like to avoid drawing more attention to our age gap/life experience differences if I can help it.
He exhales a slow breath and drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “I’d like to see you again.”
I don’t want to sound too eager, so I clear my throat and say, “I can check my calendar.”
That stunning smile of his makes yet another appearance, and he strokes my cheek with a knuckle. “I can call you?”
“Sure.”
“And you’ll answer?”
I laugh. “I’ll answer.”
“Great.” He unbuckles his seat belt and opens the driver’s side door.
I’m still in a bit of a daze, so it takes me a few seconds to manage the coordination necessary to unfasten my own seat belt. By the time I free myself, Griffin is already at my door, opening it for me. I’m so off-kilter that I forget my backpack. Griffin gets it for me and walks me to the door. I get one final goodbye kiss, this one much shorter and chaste.
He waits until I’m inside and the door clicks shut behind me before he returns to his car. He doesn’t get in until the elevator doors open and I step inside with a wave.
As soon as I’m heading for the eighth floor, I let out a stupid girly squeal. “Oh my God!” I cover my mouth with my hand, even though there’s no one to hear me shrieking like an idiot.
I walk into my apartment with a huge smile on my face, feeling ridiculously giddy. I don’t even notice the cherry scent until I get to the living room and am enveloped by a cloud of vape fumes.
Nev is sprawled out on the couch with an e-cigarette in her hand, drinking my favorite bottled cocktail, channel surfing. She’s also wearing my clothes, hence the reason for my clean outfit issue tonight. She quirks a brow as she looks me over. “Are you high or something?”
“What?” I look down, as if that somehow explains why she’d come to that conclusion.
“You’ve got a seriously dopey look on your face.”
“Oh. No. The only thing I’m high on is life.” I drop my backpack on the floor, open a window, and settle into the recliner on the other side of the living room. “I just went out with this super hot guy who can kiss like . . . I don’t even have words for how amazing it was, but my toes are still curling.”
“I hope it’s not another one of those loser college guys.”
“They’re not losers if they’re in college, Nev. And this guy is actually finished with college.”
Nev perks up. “Oh yeah? Does he have a good job? You wanna date guys who make at least $150K a year minimum. Did he pick you up? What kind of car does he drive?”
I hate that these are the kinds of things my sister considers important. “I don’t think asking a guy how much he makes on the first date is a great conversation starter, but maybe I’ll work it in next time.” I let my sarcasm hang out.
My sister rolls her eyes. “Guys love to talk about how much money they make. They think their bankroll is in direct correlation with how big their dick is. Anyway, tell me about his car.”
My sister is obsessed with cars. So much so that she lost her virginity in one and has spent the better part of her early and midtwenties trying to have sex in every single high-end sports car out there. I don’t agree with her tactics, but then, she and I are very different.
“It was sporty.” I push up off the couch and check the fridge for something to drink. I’m still full from dinner, but now I want something to mask the lingering taste of onions. I can’t believe I ate a plate of onion rings and Griffin still kissed me, for lots of minutes.
“That’s pretty vague, Cosy.”
“It was black and a two-seater with a push-button start and leather seats. It was nice, that’s all I know.” There are no more fun drinks, but I find a Grape Crush hidden in the back of the fridge and pop the cap, taking a sip of the sickly sweet soda. It helps with the onion taste.
“Okay, so he drives a sporty car, is hot, and finished college. How old is he?”
“Older.”
Nev sits up, her e-cigarette dropping to the floor. At least she can’t burn holes in the furniture with it. “How much older?”
“Like, ten years,” I mutter.
“Well done, sis.” She slow claps.
“Why are you clapping?”
“Come on, Cosy, you’re not that naïve. Guy in his thirties, driving a sports car, dating a college girl? He’s reliving his glory days while he can still get it up without having to pop a pill. Look at you, you’re like innocence and sex all wrapped up in a pretty package. You should go out with him again. I’ll tell you all the best restaurants and clubs to go to.”
I hate how jaded Nev is, but what I hate even more is that she has a point, because I thought that exact same thing. Ten years might be nothing when you’re talking forty to fifty, or even thirty to forty, but this guy has a career, and he’s only here for a short period of time.
I’m a fun time, not girlfriend material for a guy like Griffin. Not that I want to be his girlfriend. I’ve only gone out with him once, and at the end of the semester I have an internship that’s going to take me away from Vegas. So maybe I should let him take me out again. It would be nice to go to a place that doesn’t allow coupons. And now I sound exactly like my sister. Great.
I tune back in as Nev launches into one of her spiels. “You should definitely go out with him again if he calls. I mean, no guy your age is going to wine and dine you the way this guy will. Plus, if he’s in his thirties, he should know his way around a clit.”
“Wow, you’re really selling it, Nev.”
“I’m just saying, Cosy. If you’re already swooning this hard over a kiss, imagine how good the sex could be. You get a guy with experience, and he’s not just going to jackhammer his way to Jizzville.”
Not the most eloquent way to put it, but once again, she makes a good point.