After flipping through a variety of movies that neither one of us were interested in, we finally decided to watch an indie flick. I made some popcorn and brought out sodas. I turned off the lights and made my way to my section of the sofa.
We were bookends.
Usually people sit at a relatively close distance with each other. Maybe not cuddling, but at least within arm’s reach. We were so far apart on the long sofa, I had a feeling I was in a different zip code.
We watched the movie in silence, with Ian chuckling at some parts. Not sure if he truly enjoyed the movie or if he wondered how in the hell did his Thanksgiving become such a clusterfuck? Still, he seemed to be enjoying himself no matter the case and that’s what really mattered.
“So, why is it that you don’t have a boyfriend?”
His question jarred me from the bright TV screen and I found myself stammering. Here I thought Ian was in his own mind, entertaining himself in BFE while he was really scoping my history. “Wh-wh-what do you mean?”
“If you had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t be here; he would be. Your pulchritude is legendary and your intelligence is astounding. So why are you single?”
My pulchritude is legendary? Holy shit, Batman! That’s the most incredible thing a man has ever said to me. (Pulchritude means beauty, for those who don’t know.)
If I was at a loss of words before, I’m truly stunned now. “I’m picky about who I date.”
Ian nodded as if he agreed with my stance. “Good. Too many wasteful men out there.”
I decided to flip the script on him. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
“I’m just as picky,” he nodded and slouched down on the sofa, “everyone knows the Ferguson name but all they see is the flashy cars, the designer clothes, and the celebrity friends.”
“Well, that’s courtesy of you, Ian,” I pointed out. His IG account was filled with his expensive toys, celebrity friends, and vacation pics from around the world. He was definitely the flashier of the Fergusons. I’m sure he being named as one of the world’s most eligible bachelors didn’t hurt his cause.
But he was a quiet flashy, if that makes sense. Other than he switched dates as much as I switched TV channels, you never heard about him getting it poppin’ in the club or acting like an asshole like some of these celebrity wannabes. Even online (because yes, when you have a crush on someone you Google the hell out of them; don’t act like I’m the only one), his fangirls talk about their encounters with him. How handsome he was (true), how polite and kind he was (also true), and how amazing he smelled (that is damn true).
I guess when you’re a successful restaurateur at 33, you don’t have time for the unnecessary bullcrap.
“I know my role,” he shrugged as if he took the blame but he still didn’t see what was wrong, “it’s when a woman sees all of that but wonders why you can’t see her because you’re hosting a celebrity party…when you’re catering a private event…when you have to shut down the restaurant because a wealthy client wanted to celebrate his son’s bat mitzvah…” His voice trailed off and he gave a defeated shrug. It seemed to be an issue he’d dealt with for a while.
DJ Khaled always mentioned he suffered from success and I thought it was a joke. The only thing that man suffered from was too many trips to the buffet table. Now hearing Ian wax poetic, I get it. If Ian wanted to be successful on his own, it meant he couldn’t give the same focus to his dating life.
I would feel sorry for him but I’m sure as lonely as he gets, his dick stays wet as evident by our first encounter at his penthouse.
“They see the success but not the hard work that goes behind it,” I mentioned.
“Everyone does.” Ian replied. “That’s what rappers sell. That’s what those late-night scamming informercials sell. That’s what the reality shows sell. They show the big homes, the flashy cars, the designer purses and clothes. They don’t see the 12-hour days. They don’t see us working seven days a week. They don’t see us working major holidays.” Ian sighed again. “Every Valentine’s Day, I’ve spent it at my restaurants, not with a date.”
I mean, if you want a Valentine’s date in a few months, my schedule is wide open, boy. “I don’t see you crying over that.”
“Because I didn’t. They did.” Ian seemed part-remorseful and part-annoyed. Now I understand why he doesn’t have girlfriends. Too much time and energy to dedicate to a single person. Lord knows I’m needy and would want to see him all of the time.
Maybe it’s a good thing he’s just a fantasy and not reality. I had a feeling I would’ve been super disappointed.
“You could scoot closer to me if you like. I promise I won’t disrespect you.”
Gotta love it when a man tells you he’ll be on his best behavior. Also gotta love it when you wish he wasn’t. This is a part of Ian I would later find out how incredibly frustrating it is. I mean, if he decided to give my ass a little smack, I don’t think I would mind that at all.
I laid my head on his chest and listened to the soft beating of his heart as his arm lazily draped over my body. He felt even better than I’d imagined. His muscular build hugged me right back. His cologne tickled every one of my senses.
Ian was better than hot cocoa on a blistering cold night. Just feeling his warmth and strength beneath me was everything.
His hand was close to my butt and if he wanted to (I wanted him to), he could’ve copped a feel.
Instead, he splayed his fingers across my thighs as they slowly massaged my skin. It wasn’t sexual but sensual; almost second-nature as if he’d already done this before with me. With us.
It was a comforting feeling. It was a weird as hell feeling. We came from two different worlds and he’s already well-established in his while I’m still trying to find my way. Yet, it feels like we were supposed to connect with each other at this time, this moment.
His fingers stopped moving and I instantly noticed the sudden movement. I looked up at Ian and saw him peacefully sleeping. Damn, he even looked heavenly as he slept.
Now I was in a predicament: do I wake him up so he could sleep in my room with me? Do I leave him on the sofa? Furthermore, if he does sleep in my room, would he assume to sleep in my bed with me in it?
I guess there’s only one way to find out.
I gently shook him awake. “Ian,” his eyes slowly opened to mine, “let’s go to bed.”
He blinked at me twice. “I beg your pardon?”
“To sleep,” I emphasized, trying to convince myself. “My bed is more comfortable than this sofa.”
I helped him up and led the way to the bedroom. I removed the blankets and crawled into bed. “Your turn!”
Ian’s next move was the ultimate game-changer. He removed his shirt, revealing every bit of fantasy I had ever imagined. Good Lord, Hallelujah! Tawny skin adorned washboard abs, hardened nipples, and just-right muscular arms.
He stepped out of his jeans and I noticed he was a boxer brief man. Yes, I was staring at his crotch and I couldn’t tell you how big or small he was but I’m pretty damn sure he was just right.
He climbed in bed and cuddled right next to me. “You’re okay with me being in bed with you like this?” He asked.
I was more than okay. My tummy fluttered with anticipation while the loud pounding of my heart matched the equal thumping in the vee of my sex. If tonight was the night he was going to deflower me, this was better than any trashy novel I’ve ever read. “I’m good,” I whispered.
“I won’t sleep with you tonight so you don’t have to worry about that.” He kissed my forehead. “I’ll just sleep.”
Emotions are so funny. One minute, I wanted this guy to take me to Pleasure Land with a few pit stops in Ecstasy, Please Lick Me Again, and Multiple Orgasms. The next minute, I wanted to take him to a place called Blue Balls R Us.
As Ian slept with me, I stayed awake and stared up at the ceiling. We won’t date. We won’t ever be lovers. But we’ll be good friends who platonically cuddle in bed.
I’m okay with that.
Feeling Some Type of Way is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, All Romance, Kobo, Smashwords, and iTunes.
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