Ninja At First Sight (12 page)

Greg examined me for a beat, neither frowning nor smiling. At length, he rolled away, stood, walked to my door, shut and locked it. He paused, his hand hovering on the door knob. I lifted to my elbows to watch him. When he turned, the emotion behind his gaze startled me. I didn’t know what it meant, but it appeared to be serious.

I slowly eased backward, my head connecting with my pillow. He stalked to the bed, tugging his sweatshirt over his head and discarding it to the floor.

My heart was beating triple time as he lifted the covers and climbed beneath. I scootched over, to give him more room, but he reached for my body and easily pulled me to the center of the bed. He climbed over me, his hips between my legs, hovering. He kissed me.

Greg’s limbs tangled with mine, his long torso hot and hard above. His impressive shoulders and arms bracketed mine, caging me. Even though he braced most of his weight on his hands, he was solid and heavy.

At roughly 5’2”, I’d never been a tall person. Yet—for whatever reason—I’d never thought of myself as small. Maybe because I’d always considered myself to be strong. I’d never wanted to feel small, never craved it.

However, in that moment, I did feel small. He was everywhere. Greg, his body, his presence, had never been so overwhelming. I felt delicate, but not in terms of being breakable. Rather, delicate in terms of being treasured and desired.

The being desired felt good—heart-soaring, belly-twisting, fever-inducing good—but also unsettling.

Admittedly, maybe my sudden sense of being small was also due to the potential of being overpowered, dominated. Even if I’d been six feet, I suspected my thoughts and feelings would have been the same. I doubted he intended to intimidate me, but there it was. His strength, size, and maleness; his brain, background, and experiences; everything about him
was intimidating.

I lifted my hands and tentatively placed them on his shoulders, telling myself to relax. And the longer we just kissed, our bodies moving and arching together in rhythm with our shared heartbeat, the more I did relax.

After a time, however, I grew restless again. Even though I still felt dominated and small, I wanted to do more than
just
kiss.

My touches grew bolder. I slid my hands down his chest to the hem of his shirt. I slipped my fingers into the band of his jeans. His hips jerked forward, trapping my hands between us, and pressing his hard length to my center.

My eyes flew open and an involuntary shudder passed through me. I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but unable to speak.

Greg dipped his head to the side, breathing heavily against my neck, his words ragged. “Fe, you need to move your hands.”

I gasped, because his hips shifted and mine rocked forward in a mindless response. The friction made everything about his solid, heavy, hot domination feel incredibly necessary, and then terrifying. And then necessary again.

“Ah… fuck.” He tensed, holding his breath for several seconds. He rolled off of me, pushing the covers away but making no move to stand. His elbows were planted on his knees, his head in his hands, and I watched the rise and fall of his breaths.

Meanwhile I felt overheated, agitated, and… needy. I was sweating and my hands were shaking. I needed him to say something.

“Greg?”

“Give me a minute.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me, and covered my face with my hands. I rubbed my eyes with my fingers and smiled, because this had definitely been a new experience. A thrilling, exciting, terrifying new experience. I folded my hands over my stomach and stared at the ceiling. My smile grew and I laughed lightly, feeling joy.

Greg twisted and peered at me, his left eyebrow lifted. When he saw my expression, his answering grin was hesitant and confused.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Nothing is funny.”

His eyes narrowed, but he was still smiling.

I laughed again and added, “Everything is serious.”

He wrinkled his nose in suspicion, likely because I was caught in a fit of giggles, and turned completely toward me. His fingers dug into my sides and I jerked forward in response, gasping.

“Gah! That tickles!”

“But does it seriously tickle?”

I couldn’t breathe, my body twisting in ticklish spasms, made sensitive with pent up desire. “Yes, yes it seriously tickles! Stop! Please. Please stop!”

He did, kneeling on the bed, hovering over me with his crooked grin, his eyes bright and happy.

“Face the window, Fe. It’s time to cuddle.” Greg stretched beside me, over the covers, and nudged my shoulder, encouraging me to turn.

“Is this serious cuddling?” I teased. “Should I take notes?”

“Yes and yes. You should always be taking notes when we’re together. I’m a consistent source of how to do everything right.”

I snorted and he poked me through my covers. “Do you need to be seriously tickled again?”

“No!”

“Okay then. Simmer down.” He wrapped his arm around me, his chest to my back, his chin at the crown of my head. We lay together for several minutes in cozy silence, both of us releasing heavy sighs of contentment.

As we snuggled, I realized I was happy, too. I’d been sad when he arrived, I’d been lonely. I didn’t feel lonely now.

This thought made me frown at the window.

Certainly, my depth of feelings for Greg were due in part to the instant and undeniable attraction between us, the inexplicable and intangible sense of rightness the instant I laid eyes on him. Instead of dissipating, this attraction persisted, had grown and multiplied, fostered by conversation, respect, and laughter.

Every day, every moment we spent together was building toward… something.

I was practical enough to be concerned by this realization. I couldn’t allow Greg to become my whole world. I needed friendships. He’d chased my melancholy away with his kisses and touches, and of course I’d enjoyed every minute of it. But reason told me it would be a mistake to allow anyone—even Greg—to be the master of my happiness.

It wouldn’t be fair to him, to burden him with all of my woes, wishes, and conversation.

And it wouldn’t be fair to me.

“Favorite food?”

“Soup. I love soup.”

I lowered my gaze to the red and white checkered tablecloth, barely resisting the urge to pick wax off the old Chianti bottle currently being used as a candle holder. I didn’t know how or when Greg had discovered this quaint Italian restaurant twenty minutes from the University, but I was glad he had. The food was awesome and the ambiance was singular and romantic. Manganiello’s Italian Restaurant was a vast improvement over the Olive Garden.

Tonight was technically our first date, our first meal together not in the dorms or school café. He was in a suit, therefore I was having difficulty forming sentences, or breathing, or swallowing.

“What kind?”

“All kinds.”

“All kinds?”

“Yes.”

“Even lentil?” He sounded and looked shocked, appalled even.

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing; apparently, trying not to laugh was my default expression when speaking with Greg. “I’ve been known to enjoy lentil soup, yes.”

“Lentil soup is disgusting. It’s the exact same texture as brains.”

I lifted an eyebrow at this characterization of lentil soup. “And you know this how?”

“Stop changing the subject, why do you like soup so much—including, but not limited to, brain soup?”

I sighed, though it was a smiley sigh because I was enjoying his quick-witted irascibility. “I guess because soups are the food equivalent of a warm hug.”

And just like that, his judgmental expression cleared. “Nice.” He nodded his approval, giving me a quick smile before continuing his barrage of first date questions. I got the impression he’d been saving them up. “Okay, favorite ice cream?”

And just like that I was imagining Greg licking ice cream. My chest tightened. I cleared my throat, averted my eyes, and reached for my water.

Now late-April, we’d spent over two months kissing, touching over clothes, and cuddling. Maybe light caresses on my stomach and back. And not very often—twice a week, three times if I were lucky.

I thought about Hivan and Dara and their constant physical encounters. Greg and I were their opposite. They never spoke except to scream at each other. Greg and I spoke constantly and about almost everything under the sun—current events, history, philosophy, books, movies, hopes, dreams—and conversing with him felt akin to breathing, natural and necessary.

I’d learned he wanted to be a petroleum engineer, ato keep accidents like the Exxon-Valdez disaster from happening again. I learned he was passionate about the environment, eradicating poverty and the resulting hunger and homelessness.

Yet we hadn’t made it past second base.

We were taking things slow. Really, really slow. Molasses slow. Tectonic plates slow. Erosion slow. At first the slowness had been comforting, reassuring.

But now, I was fixating.

Little things about him had become oddly erotic and distracting. The way he pursed his mouth when he whistled, or how he’d stroke his bottom lip with his thumb when he was concentrating. His hands were a frequent source of thought derailment; sometimes I’d catch myself staring at his fingers and knuckles, and I’d lose my breath.

I was twisted in knots.

I couldn’t quite look at him yet, still distracted by the mental image of him licking an ice cream cone, so I stated my response to the tablecloth. “No favorite.”

“You don’t have a favorite ice cream?”

“No. I’m an equal opportunity ice cream eater.”

“We’ll have to change that. Only fascists don’t have a favorite ice cream.” Lightning fast, he changed the subject. “I know you grew up without essentials, like a radio, but who is your favorite band? Or do you have one? I just realized I’ve never asked.”

“Led Zeppelin.” Finally (mostly) recovered, I met his gaze again.

He gave me a single eyebrow raise paired with, “Hmm… interesting. How did you get access to Led Zeppelin? Was it contraband smuggled in by a classic rock loving neighbor?”

“No, nothing so clandestine. My father has Led Zeppelin records and I used to listen to them over and over again when my mother was out of the house. He also has albums by The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, The Yardbirds, Jefferson Airplane—that kind of music.”

“All in vinyl?”

“Yes.”

“That’s rather impressive, actually. Favorite song?”

“Favorite Led Zeppelin song or just favorite song?”

“Your favorite song isn’t by your favorite band?”

“Led Zeppelin is my favorite band because I love virtually all of their songs, they consistently write music I love. However, they didn’t write the song I love the most.”

“Which is?”

“A Kiss To Build A Dream On.”

His brown eyes shifted to the right, like he was trying to place the title. When his gaze moved back to mine it was ripe with curiosity. “Isn’t that an older song?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard it, I’ll have to look it up. Why the love?”

“My grandfather used to play it on the piano and my grandmother used to sing it when I was little. Sometimes, when I would visit them in the summer, they’d play it on their record player and dance to it, the foxtrot I think, in the living room. The way they would look at each other…” I sighed and gave him a little shrug. “It’s the perfect song.”

He was studying me, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, but a lingering smile in his eyes. “How did they look at each other?”

“They looked at each other like they cherished each other, like they couldn’t live without the other. It’s what I’ve always surmised being in love looked like.”

“How old were they, when they did this?”

“When I visited them they were seventy or eighty, I guess.”

His mouth tugged upwards on one side. “Enduring love.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, because that’s what it was.

“I wonder if it still exists, if it’s possible.”

I frowned, blinked at him. But before I could comment he asked, “Favorite Muppet?”

“Um, Beaker.”

“Yes! Right answer. Favorite Muppet movie?”

“Muppets Take Manhattan.”

“Ah, not the right answer, but I’ll allow it only because it wasn’t the crappy space one. Favorite TV show?”

“Right now?” I had to think about this because I’d just recently started watching popular television shows. Prior to college, my TV options were limited to VHS cassettes of old movies and cartoons. “Um… Seinfeld.”

“Really? Seinfeld? I took you for more of a
Friends
aficionado.” Greg said this with no trace of condescension, which made me wonder if his favorite TV show was
Friends…
I found that unlikely.

“I like
Friends
, I do. But the absurdity of Seinfeld feels more like real life, I’m not one for fantasy. I also like that the show is about normal looking people and everyday situations.”

“Normal looking people?” Greg stole one of my asparagus spears and began munching on the tip. His elbows were on the table and he was leaning forward, giving me his full attention—as per usual.

The first time we’d eaten together was in a school café—the week after Valentine's Day—and every time since he’d stolen food off my plate. Usually my French fries. I stopped ordering French fries only to discover Greg was an indiscriminate food stealer. No matter what was on my plate, he was going to steal it.

At some point I was going to pile it high with jalapeno peppers just to see what he’d do.

“Yeah. Normal looking people. Every character, or actor, on
Friends
is too pretty. I can’t suspend reality for people that good looking—again it’s a fantasy. I keep thinking, where are their normal looking friends? Are they only willing to be friends with young, beautiful, thin people of average height? And why is their apartment so big? That’s a huge apartment for New York.” I shrugged. “It bothers me.”

He lifted a single eyebrow at my explanation, but a small smile curved his lips as I finished. He stared at me, the little smile affixed to his mouth.

I took a bite of my pasta, chewed, swallowed, and still he stared.

When he didn’t speak after my second bite I prompted, “What?”

Greg shook his head quickly, as though he were coming out of a daze. “Nothing.” His eyes lowered to the table, he was hiding them from me, and still he smiled.

“No, what is it?” I reached for my water, but didn’t take a sip.

With obvious reluctance he lifted his eyes. Greg was still smiling, but his features were shaded with unmistakable melancholy. “I think, after facing death, seeing it, touching it, it’s difficult to turn your brain off to the farcicalities of fantasy.”

I blinked rapidly and heard my glass clunk as it hit the table. My death—or how close I’d come to it—wasn’t something I was ready to talk about in serious terms with anyone, not even Greg. But this was the closest he’d come to discussing his time in the military, a topic I was ferociously curious about.

I chose my next words carefully, wanting him to elaborate, but not wanting to push. “What makes you think so?”

His smile grew into a knowing grin. My heart fluttered.

That smile…

Yes, Greg was tremendously attractive. Yet the more time we spent together the more his physical “flaws” came into focus. Discovering the existence of his imperfections surprised me, mostly because they were paradoxically both obvious and obscured.

As an example, Greg had a burn scar on the right side of his neck, under his jaw, and the lower half of his ear. After I noticed it, I realized his smile was crooked because of it; he must’ve lost some muscle mobility due to the burn. When I detected the scar for the first time I wondered why I hadn’t seen it straight away, it was so obvious.

I think his smiles affected me so much because of the depth of the person behind them. He was… a force. Often overwhelming. Always captivating. Crooked or not, scarred or not, his grins were lethal, made my neck hot and my stomach flip—Every. Single. Time.

He didn’t take the bait, instead opting to change the subject. “What finals do you have next week?”

“Just two, P-chem and differential equations. The other three are either class projects or papers, and those are mostly done.”

“That’s glorious. I have six.”

“Six? Six exams?” I’m sure I looked horrified.

“Yes. Starting tomorrow, I shant sleep for a week. I’ve been procrastinating. I haven’t finished my research paper on bio fuels. It’s due on Monday.”

“Let me know if I can help.”

He shook his head mournfully. “Sadly, there is no help to be had. I’ve been distracted this semester and am paying the price now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His gaze moved over me. His whisper of a smile felt secretive, meaningful as he added, “It was totally worth it.”

We stared at each other, smiling. Me flushing with pleasure. Him grinning wider at my blush.

Still grinning roguishly, he asked, “Are you ready to get out of here?”

I surveyed my plate and found I was full. “Yes. What’s next on the agenda?”

“It’s a surprise.” He’d kept the plans for this evening top secret.

“Can I guess?”

He smirked and motioned for the waiter to bring us the bill. “You can try.”

“A movie?”

His lips parted and he looked horrified. “A movie? Certainly not! What do you take me for? A pedestrian?”

The check was delivered to our table. I turned for my purse, but before I could take out my card he’d already settled the bill with cash, telling the waiter to keep the change.

I glowered at him. He answered my obvious displeasure by lifting an eyebrow and taking a drink from the vodka (neat) he’d been nursing all through dinner.

“Greg.”

“Yes, Darling?”

“We didn’t discuss how we would split the check.”

“I wasn’t aware it needed discussing.”

“I would like to split it.”

Greg shrugged, his lips pulling to the side, his tone that of a parent imparting a lesson. “Well you can’t always have what you what.”

A short laugh burst forth, but I was determined to press the point. “Expenses should be split.”

“I don’t like splitting things,” he said as he stood, holding his hand out to me. “The maths are too hard for my brain.”

“I’m being serious.” He helped me with my coat and we strolled arm in arm out of the restaurant. “I may not be the world’s foremost expert on dating, but I do know money can’t be a major point of contention, especially if one person carries the entire financial burden.”

I was thinking of my parents. My father always worked outside the home and my mother was a homemaker. She always felt like she needed to ask permission before spending money on herself, like my father’s check was
his
money. This was exacerbated by his requirement that she provide receipts for all purchases. I think it was part of what made her so volatile all the time, feeling like she had no control of her own destiny.