Lungs, are you doing okay over there?
“Is that one of yours?” He motions to my cutout jeans and a top I made out of two tops—a layered look, sewn strategically in place.
“Yes, well, the jeans are normal jeans but…I made the cuts on the knee. I reassembled this shirt from two old shirts I had, overlaying them. I…” I realize he’s looking down at me, and blush. “I’m not sure you’ll want the details of that.”
“I’m sure I don’t mind listening to you talk about it.” He smirks, and tilts his head back. To get a better look at my destruction.
“What is the purpose of these cuts?” He motions to the cuts on my legs.
Body! Calm down, please! “I…well, I suppose showing a little skin is never a bad thing.” I’m breathing too hard.
He reaches down, frowning, and strokes his thumb along the bare skin of my knee. “Bad for whom? The wearer or the looker?” He straightens, his expression puzzled.
“I…suppose both. The wearer has the pleasure of…well, feeling some air against her skin and of…possibly feeling some attention she may crave coming her way.”
“And the looker…?”
My lungs and heart and stomach are all in chaos mode.
“Well, the looker will find…something to look at he may find interesting…that may have more under the surface.”
He looks down my legs, then up to my face.
“Clothes aren’t just about getting dressed,” I continue breathlessly. “They’re about expressing yourself, who you are, and setting the stage for how you want to be treated, how you want to be seen.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets and stares straight ahead. “You’re saying you have control over the way you’re seen by others depending on the way you present yourself.”
“Yes. I am.” I nervously flip my hair back as we start walking again, the air between us so charged I can’t believe it’s not the focal point of a lightning bolt. “Say I’m wearing comfortable clothes so I just want to be feeling comfortable, treated friendly,” I explain. “Maybe if I want to be treated more sensually, I’d wear a short dress, with cleavage, something that sends out the message of what I want from…well, from the party I’m seeing.”
“You didn’t mean to seduce whoever you were seeing today with this little outfit?” He shoots me a black, rather stark look.
“No! Of course not, it’s my most simple.”
“I don’t buy this.” The angle of his jaw squares a little as he clenches it.
“I…honestly!” I laugh.
“You weren’t intending to drive some guy’s thoughts fucking crazy, Miss Kelly? Wondering what’s under there?” he demands disbelievingly, tugging on my top with a playful smile.
“Christos, are you teasing me?!”
“You’re teasing the world, bit. This whole outfit is teasing the world.”
“Come on!” I laugh hysterically, shaking my head in denial. “I was going dog walking later today,” I defend.
“Dogs and babies. Isn’t that an age-old trick?”
“Why? Have you used it?” I tease. “Is that how you snatched Miranda Santorini?”
His smile fades—and so does mine.
I could bite my tongue for saying that, ugh.
I fidget with my empty coffee cup, and he suddenly takes it from my hand and throws it into a trashcan we pass.
Silence falls between us. I bear a heavy sensation in my chest at the thought of him walking me back home at some point later on.
“You know, I cried when you left,” I whisper, glancing at my feet.
His eyes begin shimmering as we share a sideways look, and he looks so gorgeous right now, I would snap a picture of him if I could. “You got my only good shirt wet,” he says, looking amused.
“Ohmigod. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I didn’t want it to dry.” He brushes his thumb over my cheek, and I laugh to hide the way my whole body burns and fizzles under his touch.
Trying to suppress my reaction, I tell him, “You’re a player.”
He looks at me in feigned surprise. “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
“You play the game well.”
He laughs, shaking his head as we keep walking. Block after block. “It’s never been a game with you.”
“What are you doing now?” I narrow my eyes, confused.
But truth be told, I want him to keep going. I never want him to stop teasing me. Looking at me like that, with that playful gleam, like a man who knows his effect and doesn’t hesitate to use it.
“What am I doing now?” He frowns thoughtfully and glances straight ahead. “Walking down memory lane, in the middle of…”—he glances at the street sign—“20th Street.”
I smile, wringing my hands as we keep walking, just two people in a humongous city. I’m sure he’s used to this city, but I’m not. I walk in it to remind myself of my size in the grand scope of things, a tiny speck in this galaxy.
I walk this city to see what people do here, talk about here, what they wear, if they look sad or happy. Every single one of us with a dream, all of us shuffling to our destinations, all of us trying to make our experiences here in the world more worthwhile.
Successes, love…the things that make it all intoxicating.
I cannot think of a more intoxicating moment I’ve experienced in New York so far than walking it with him.
Intoxicating him.
“Is that one of yours?” He motions to my cutout jeans and a top I made out of two tops—a layered look, sewn strategically in place.
“Yes, well, the jeans are normal jeans but…I made the cuts on the knee. I reassembled this shirt from two old shirts I had, overlaying them. I…” I realize he’s looking down at me, and blush. “I’m not sure you’ll want the details of that.”
“I’m sure I don’t mind listening to you talk about it.” He smirks, and tilts his head back. To get a better look at my destruction.
“What is the purpose of these cuts?” He motions to the cuts on my legs.
Body! Calm down, please! “I…well, I suppose showing a little skin is never a bad thing.” I’m breathing too hard.
He reaches down, frowning, and strokes his thumb along the bare skin of my knee. “Bad for whom? The wearer or the looker?” He straightens, his expression puzzled.
“I…suppose both. The wearer has the pleasure of…well, feeling some air against her skin and of…possibly feeling some attention she may crave coming her way.”
“And the looker…?”
My lungs and heart and stomach are all in chaos mode.
“Well, the looker will find…something to look at he may find interesting…that may have more under the surface.”
He looks down my legs, then up to my face.
“Clothes aren’t just about getting dressed,” I continue breathlessly. “They’re about expressing yourself, who you are, and setting the stage for how you want to be treated, how you want to be seen.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets and stares straight ahead. “You’re saying you have control over the way you’re seen by others depending on the way you present yourself.”
“Yes. I am.” I nervously flip my hair back as we start walking again, the air between us so charged I can’t believe it’s not the focal point of a lightning bolt. “Say I’m wearing comfortable clothes so I just want to be feeling comfortable, treated friendly,” I explain. “Maybe if I want to be treated more sensually, I’d wear a short dress, with cleavage, something that sends out the message of what I want from…well, from the party I’m seeing.”
“You didn’t mean to seduce whoever you were seeing today with this little outfit?” He shoots me a black, rather stark look.
“No! Of course not, it’s my most simple.”
“I don’t buy this.” The angle of his jaw squares a little as he clenches it.
“I…honestly!” I laugh.
“You weren’t intending to drive some guy’s thoughts fucking crazy, Miss Kelly? Wondering what’s under there?” he demands disbelievingly, tugging on my top with a playful smile.
“Christos, are you teasing me?!”
“You’re teasing the world, bit. This whole outfit is teasing the world.”
“Come on!” I laugh hysterically, shaking my head in denial. “I was going dog walking later today,” I defend.
“Dogs and babies. Isn’t that an age-old trick?”
“Why? Have you used it?” I tease. “Is that how you snatched Miranda Santorini?”
His smile fades—and so does mine.
I could bite my tongue for saying that, ugh.
I fidget with my empty coffee cup, and he suddenly takes it from my hand and throws it into a trashcan we pass.
Silence falls between us. I bear a heavy sensation in my chest at the thought of him walking me back home at some point later on.
“You know, I cried when you left,” I whisper, glancing at my feet.
His eyes begin shimmering as we share a sideways look, and he looks so gorgeous right now, I would snap a picture of him if I could. “You got my only good shirt wet,” he says, looking amused.
“Ohmigod. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I didn’t want it to dry.” He brushes his thumb over my cheek, and I laugh to hide the way my whole body burns and fizzles under his touch.
Trying to suppress my reaction, I tell him, “You’re a player.”
He looks at me in feigned surprise. “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
“You play the game well.”
He laughs, shaking his head as we keep walking. Block after block. “It’s never been a game with you.”
“What are you doing now?” I narrow my eyes, confused.
But truth be told, I want him to keep going. I never want him to stop teasing me. Looking at me like that, with that playful gleam, like a man who knows his effect and doesn’t hesitate to use it.
“What am I doing now?” He frowns thoughtfully and glances straight ahead. “Walking down memory lane, in the middle of…”—he glances at the street sign—“20th Street.”
I smile, wringing my hands as we keep walking, just two people in a humongous city. I’m sure he’s used to this city, but I’m not. I walk in it to remind myself of my size in the grand scope of things, a tiny speck in this galaxy.
I walk this city to see what people do here, talk about here, what they wear, if they look sad or happy. Every single one of us with a dream, all of us shuffling to our destinations, all of us trying to make our experiences here in the world more worthwhile.
Successes, love…the things that make it all intoxicating.
I cannot think of a more intoxicating moment I’ve experienced in New York so far than walking it with him.
Intoxicating him.
