Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (9 page)

My imagination takes over and instead of doing things like, I don't know, following, I'm picturing what it would be like to kiss him. To have those strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. To have those soft lips tease mine, pulling and pushing, slipping down to my throat, over to the soft spot below my ear, down a little more—

My face slams against the seat.

Ow.

I adjust, sitting up and rubbing my cheek, when
bam
! Realization hits.

I fell over.

I actually got so mesmerized just thinking about kissing him that I fell over…inside of a car. How is that even possible? My entire body still tingles from the imaginary kiss. And I have to admit—I'm a little nervous how I'll react if it happens in real life. Well, not if, when. Definitely when. Cue the heart palpitations!

"Uh, Skylar? You coming?" Patrick teases.

Shoot! Did he see me?

"Sorry!" I scramble to follow, mind not quite working right, and I bump my head on the door on my way out.

Ow. Again.

More lightheadedness is so not what I need right now.

Patrick offers his hand and I take it thankfully, leaning on him while my racing thoughts clear. We make our way to the elevator, up a whole lot of floors, and arrive at the restaurant. To my amazement, my conversational skills return and we chitchat about nonsense until we're led to our table.

The sight takes my breath away.

Oh, yeah. This date is definitely newsworthy.

Our table rests right next to a floor-to-ceiling window, and I don't think I've ever seen New York look more beautiful than it does right now. The sun just finished setting, illuminating a midnight sky with soft aquamarine light. Far above, the stars flicker to life, brightening with each passing second, and farther down, countless windows across the horizon resemble floating lanterns against the deepening dark. The park is a forest shrouded in bottomless evergreen, vivified every so often by the orange glow of a streetlight. From so high up, the city looks quieter, more peaceful.

"Patrick," I say, sighing, because I can't find any other words.

He pulls my seat out and for the first time I notice the candles in the center of the table. They're always there, I'm sure, but right now it just seems like another thing to add to the growing list of romance. And bubbling beside the flame, shimmering like liquid gold, are two glasses of champagne. Across the soft light, I meet his eyes, warm brown at the center then brightening to dazzling emerald, and I get the sense that though he's been to the restaurant a dozen times before, this time might be different, might be special for him too. We clink our glasses, neither bothering to look away. A few minutes later, we're interrupted by a waiter.

"Your first course," he says and begins describing some sort of tuna tartare dish. I look down at the spoonful of tiny maroon cubes garnished with vegetables I don’t recognize because they're in miniscule shavings.

"Um," I murmur, looking up. "I don’t think these are ours. We haven't even seen a menu yet."

He just looks at me like I'm insane.

"Thank you," Patrick interjects, dismissing him before turning an amused smile on me. "I forgot you've never been here. There's an a la carte menu, but the tasting menu is much better. Seven courses and I ordered the wine pairings too. Speaking of…"

I turn just as two quarter-filled glasses of wine are set on the table, I don't catch the full description—I'm too focused on trying to discern what food is about to go in my mouth—but I recognize the words
sauvignon blanc
. The wine, at least, I know I'll like.

Without hesitation, Patrick picks up his spoon and polishes off the food in one bite, taking a small sip of wine to wash it down.

I swallow, a slight sliver of dread tickling my throat, and glance back at my plate, wondering if Cinderella had to deal with raw fish for her prince charming. Somehow, I doubt it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm all for trying new foods, but I'm more of a burger and fries, spaghetti and meatballs, take-out Chinese sort of girl.

Laughter pulls my eyes away from the food. It’s Patrick, watching me watch my plate. "Aren't you going to eat it?"

"Oh, sure," I reply, reaching for the spoon, trying to act braver than I feel. "I just like to get the full aesthetic experience before I eat."

He raises his eyebrows, grin deepening as I bring the spoon to my lips.

One.

Two.

Three.

I open and swallow the contents.

Not bad, but not really my favorite either. It's a little…slimy. I reach for my wine, downing it in one sip, before looking up at Patrick with a sort of apologetic expression. And the rest of dinner passes in a somewhat similar fashion.

There's a spot in the middle where I actually recognize what I'm eating—lobster tail and then some sort of beef—but for the most part, I grin and bear it, telling myself I'm becoming more cultured with each passing second. The wine though, the wine is absolutely fantastic. And after one glass of champagne and seven miniature glasses of wine, I'm more than a little tipsy by the time dessert—a strange tapioca ball concoction—is cleared off the table. What can I say? Lots of wine and teeny tiny little portions make for a drunk Skylar.

"So, what did you think?" Patrick asks as we exit the restaurant, making our way toward the elevator. I hold onto his arm, leaning into his body for support. Oh, I can walk perfectly fine, I'm not that tipsy. But the wine has sort of whisked my inhibitions far enough away that I give in to the desire to touch him, to hold him. Beneath my hands, his bicep flexes just enough to make me curious about what other muscles hide beneath his clothes. Note to self—tasting menus at very expensive restaurants are dangerous. Steer clear in the future! You'll find your hormones raging with reckless abandon in only a few short hours.

"Did you like the food?" Patrick asks again.

"It was different," I say diplomatically. "Not really like anything I've had before. But next time, I think I should get to choose the spot."

He doesn’t answer.

And then I realize my mistake.

Next time! Why did I say next time? Stupid inebriated loose lips!

I close my eyes tight, letting him lead my steps, but then I give in to curiosity and take a peek up. He senses the movement and looks down.

"And what spot is that?"

I bite my lip, thinking for a moment, but really—it’s a no brainer. "Shake Shack. Madison Park. We can wait in line for an hour and freeze our butts off, then chow down on burgers and fries, freezing a little bit more from the milkshakes. But in the end, it'll totally be worth it."

He tilts his head a little, eyes brightening as if that's the last response he ever expected, but then reaches out his hand. "Deal."

"Deal," I repeat and we shake on it as we make our way outside. The night air sends a chill down my spine, causing goose bumps to pucker my skin. Patrick shrugs out of his suit jacket, resting it around my shoulders, and I hug the edges tight, breathing in the subtle scent of cologne.

I look at him.

He looks down at me.

A nervous tingle tickles my neck, and I know this is that moment at the end of the night that I dread—that moment when I take a cab home by myself or toss my caution to the wind and go home with him. But even after the romance and the wine, my choice is clear. Still though, I'm not ready to say goodbye, not ready for the magic of this night to end.

"A carriage ride!" I blurt, completely ruining the moment.

Patrick recoils, surprised by my outburst. "What?"

I look to the right where horses and carriages line up at the edge of the park, just waiting for riders, and take his hand.

"Come on, I've always wanted to do one of these. I've seen it in the movies a thousand times."

Patrick sighs. "You know what's not in the movies? Something someone born and raised in Manhattan can tell you?"

I refuse to give in to his sarcasm, keeping my mood cheerful. "What?"

"Those things stink."

"Don’t be a downer."

"No, Skylar, they smell. Horrible."

And as we walk across the street, I begin to see what he means. The overwhelming scent of manure seeps through my nostrils, ripe, harsh enough to cut through the buzz the wine has made in my brain. But it’s too late. I'm already set on the idea. And Patrick relents.

We settle in the backseat and yes, it does stink. But as the driver eases off the curb and pulls into the softly lit park, Patrick wraps his arm around me and I snuggle against his side. My heartbeat quickens, pulse racing, as a familiar set of butterflies returns to my stomach. But these are nerves of anticipation, and a wave of excitement washes over me, standing my hairs on end, making my entire body alert.

I look up.

Patrick is already watching me.

Our breath teases, filling the minute space between our lips, tickling the surface of my skin. His eyes dance, twinkling like stars. They start to close and mine follow. Pulled together by the wine and the romance, his lips land velvet soft against mine, and we’re kissing. A rush of pleasure curls my toes and I sigh as he pulls me closer, erasing the gap between our bodies.

Suddenly, the smell is the last thing on my mind.

I've never been one for public displays of affection. I mean, a little peck is fine, but when two people are eating each other's faces during my morning commute, we're going to have a problem. So you can believe me when I say I feel really, really guilty when, three make out filled carriage rides later, I meet the disgusted, judging eyes of our driver. But you'll probably also believe me when I say, oh man was it worth it.

I'm floating.

Really, I'm not sure my feet are touching the ground as I finally say goodbye to Patrick and slip into my apartment building, lips puckered and swollen from a night very well spent. I've never really understood that whole cloud nine saying, but right now I think I'm there.

"Skye!"

Scratch that…the cloud has just disintegrated and I'm making a rapid descent back to earth. Mayday! Help! Maybe if I just ignore him, he'll go away.

"Skye!" And then a warm hand lands on my shoulder, turning me around. Heart plummeting I give in and spin, meeting Ollie's curious gaze. "I thought that was you," he continues, and then looks over his shoulder and out the door, looking for something—or someone. "Who was that guy?"

I shrug out of his grasp, annoyance rising. For days, I've tried to talk to him—but no. He just has to show up at the end of the best night I've had in weeks—heck, and months—and totally ruin it!

"What's it to you?" I snap.

"That wasn't Glenn was it? I swear he was working in the kitchen tonight…"

"No, for your information, it wasn't." I walk to the elevator and Ollie follows, hot on my heels.

"Who was it?"

I press the button, giving Ollie the cold shoulder before responding, "His name is Patrick."

Ollie grunts.

I turn on him, sticking a finger in the center of his chest. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing," he says and steps back. Then under his breath mutters, "Tool."

"I heard that."

"Well, sorry," Ollie adds, in a voice so far from apologetic it's laughable.

I look back at the elevator door, wondering what could possibly be taking so long, and then give in to the question burning my tongue. "Why do you care, anyway?"

"I don't," Ollie growls.

"Well, good."

"Yeah, good." Then he takes a deep breath, and from years of experience arguing with the McDonough siblings, I know there is more coming in three, two, one… "It's just, I didn't realize you had so many guys lined up. You were complaining about needing to find a boyfriend for your column, and here you are a week later coming home at three in the morning, letting some loser shove his tongue down your throat right outside our building for the whole world to see."

"Patrick is not a loser," I say just as the elevator opens before us. He was, however, shoving his tongue down my throat… But I'm too angry to give Ollie any sort of win. He steps ahead of me into the elevator while I continue ranting. "He's sweet, and chivalrous, and just treated me to one of the most romantic nights of my life. Which is more than I can say for you."

Okay, shut up, Skye!

I seal my lips, forcing them closed before I begin to move the conversation into topics better left unsaid. Ollie remains silent and I step onto the elevator next to him, crossing my arms.

But I can't help it, my blood is boiling and my throat burns to say more. Not about the thing, I don't want to talk about the thing—you know, that thing that happened four years ago that I don’t want to ever think about again. So instead, I lean over and tersely whisper, "And there aren't
so
many guys. There were two guys, Glenn and Patrick, and that's it. So I don't need any attitude from you, okay?"

But at that exact moment, a hand stops the elevator from closing and I just know before I even look up who it's going to be. And I'm right. It’s Neal—the spinach guy. Oh, for the love of god! I hit on a guy one time and it's like the world won't stop punishing me for it. Seriously! I can't escape him.

"Hey, Skye," Neal says kindly, completely unaware of what he just walked into.

I wince, holding back a massive sigh, and mumble, "Hey."

And then I wait for the inevitable.

And wait.

Ollie takes in a deep, sharp breath.

I sigh. Here we go.

"Oh," Ollie says in mock surprise, voice so smug I want to punch him. His eyes are two lasers pointed at my skull, painful. "Do you two know each other?"

"He lives in the building," I say. "Neal, Ollie. Ollie, Neal."

"Dude." Neal shrugs and holds out his hand. They shake.

"So, how'd you meet?" Ollie asks, tone far too light and far too leading.

I'm about to reply, but Neal, smelling like booze, jumps in first. I cringe. "On the elevator," he says. I breathe a sigh of relief. That wasn't so bad. But then he adds, "Her teeth were green. I thought she had a medical condition."

Oh god. I want to disappear. Immediately.

Ollie snickers. "What condition?"

"I had spinach in my teeth," I snap.

Finally, the door opens to Neal's floor, and it takes all of my self-control not to shove him forcibly off the elevator. When the doors close, I stare straight ahead, not daring to meet the challenge in Ollie's gaze.

"So, should we add Neal to the growing list of your admirers?" Ollie asks.

I remain utterly silent.

"Anyone else I should know about?" he continues.

Do not give in. Do not give him the satisfaction of a response. I just have to keep my cool.

"No? I just want to be aware if any lovesick guys are going to come knocking on our door at five in the morning, demanding to see you? I mean, if they do, I need to know how to handle the situation. Who to turn away…who to punch in the face."

I keep ignoring him until we reach our floor.

But as I begin to put the key in the lock, I stop, squeezing my eyes tight. Ollie is right behind me. Like always, I'm totally aware of his body and how close it is to mine, totally aware of the way I yearn for his touch even when I'm furious with him.

"What—"

"Ollie!" I interrupt, turning to face him. "If you have something you want to say to me, just say it. Because as soon as I go inside, I'm going to my room and going to bed, and you'll lose your chance."

His turquoise eyes brighten to clear crystal and he seals his lips, holding back whatever teasing remark he was just about to say. Our faces are only inches apart. I ball my fists at my side, holding them steady, keeping them perfectly still as a current tightens the air between us.

"I missed you," he finally says.

I suck in a breath. My chest burns. So do the corners of my eyes.

"You didn’t talk to me for four years and I missed you."

I missed you too.

The words sit ready, waiting at the back of my throat, urging to be spoken. But I can't. Because I wasn't supposed to miss him. I was supposed to forget him. I want to forget him. And tonight, for a few hours, I did.

Instead, all I do is say, "Okay."

Ollie closes his eyes for a moment, holds them there, and then nods. But I can't help but wonder what is left unsaid, what words burn the back of his throat. I don't press though. Because honestly, I don't think I'm ready to hear them.

For now, this is enough.

So I turn, ready for the solitude of my bedroom and for sleep. But as I twist the key and push the door open, a surprised scream travels up my throat, popping out before I can stop it.

A bare butt.

My eyes zero in on the target and I can't look away. I mean, I want to. But I'm bizarrely mesmerized in some out-of-body experience—like, is this really happening? There is a naked boy walking across my living room.

And then it clicks.

Bridget's date. Bridget's naked date.

Oh god.

I slam the door shut, stumbling backward into Ollie, almost knocking both of us over. He catches me before I fall, wrapping his solid arms around my waist, holding me up. I turn in his arms, eyes wide.

"Skye? What?"

My head shakes. He didn't see. Thank god he didn’t see. But then Ollie reaches into his back pocket, going for his keys.

"No!" I jump, regaining my balance and firmly holding his hand. There is no way I'm letting Ollie inside. No way.

He shakes my hold easily.

Time for a new approach.

I stand in the doorway, arms crossed. "Want to go find some pizza?"

"Pizza?" he asks, stretching his keys forward to open the door. "It's three in the morning."

"So? I'm hungry," I grumble, casually extending my arms and bracing them across the doorway, trying to create a human barrier. My stomach growls, nicely completing the act. Which isn’t really an act—after seven puny fish courses, I could use a little pizza.

"Well, I just spent about fourteen hours in a kitchen, so I'm not." And he narrows his eyes, peering at the door, clearly on to me.

"You're not going to make me hunt for pizza at three a.m. on my own, are you?" I look up, batting my eyelashes, using all the feminine powers of persuasion I possess. He softens, body wilting just a fraction, and for a moment I think I've won. I let down my guard, releasing my hold on the door.

Ollie acts.

In one move, he grabs me around the waist and lifts me over his shoulder. Damn, he's still just a strong as I remember. My hands land on his back, clutching for something steady to hold on to now that the floor looks precariously far away. But my fingers gain a mind of their own, traveling down his shirt, running over the contours of his muscles, farther down to the curve of his lower back.

Whoa, girl!

I gulp, shaking my head.

Freaking wayward hands! I curl my fingers in, realizing that the sound of jingling keys has filled the hallway.

"Ollie!" I kick out.

He just hugs my thighs tighter, holding them in place. I pound my fists on his back instead.

"Ollie, put me down."

"Not…" He grunts. "Until…" The shoulder below my abs dips for a second. "I open…" A resounding click makes its way to my ear. "The door!" There's no missing the triumph in his voice.

I wince. Waiting.

Ollie steps forward, still not letting me go, and hauls us both into the apartment. I peer around. Nothing in the kitchen. Nothing in the living room.

"Will you put me down now?" I ask, trying to maintain a little dignity. Which, you know, is really hard to do when you're upside down. And in a dress. And probably mooning the entire world…

"Okay." He shrugs beneath me. I wait for a second, expecting him to bend down and place my feet gently onto the floor. He dips. But a second later, his whole body shoots up and I know exactly what he's doing.

Soaring through the air, I yelp, "Ol—"

But before I finish, I land face first against the couch cushions. I stay there for a second, breathing heavily, rapidly pulling my skirt down. Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time this has happened. I should have been more prepared.

"Ollie!" I gruff, flipping over, meeting his grinning face. Not surprising. "I'm not ten anymore, you can't just throw me around."

"I can't?" He looks pointedly to where he just threw me.

"Well, I mean technically, you can, obviously, but—"

I stop mid-sentence as the sound of the toilet flushing echoes across our tiny living room. I know who it is before the door even opens and I close my eyes in anticipation. I already saw his naked butt. I don't need to see anything else. Ollie on the other hand…

I sigh.

Three.

Two.

One.

"What the hell!" Ollie bellows.

"Oh, hey man," the naked guy mumbles. "Sorry."

"Who the hell are you?" Ollie continues.

The guy shrugs, squirming around. "Bridget's date. Who are you?"

"Her brother," Ollie growls, utterly terrifying.

Silence falls. Naked guy subtly reaches behind him for something to cover himself with, eyes comically wide in any other situation. I just glance back and forth, keeping my gaze on their upper regions, unsure if I should laugh or get Bridget or maybe act as a human shield…