Page 57 of Bittersweet

“Let’s have sex,” Iblurt.

Marc looks at me,surprised.

“Sorry. I just mean . . .” I glance down at the plates in front of us. “Things are going well between us.Right?

“Right.” Marc nods, confusion in his eyes. Does he need a writteninvitation?

“So I think it’s time we took this relationship to the next level. Not just with your parents.” Oh God, what am I saying? “I don’t mean I want to have sex with yourparents.”

“I know.” Marc laughs, his eyessparkling.

“I just . . . I want to have sex. Don’t you?” I ask, looking at him from under mylashes.

Marc glances down at his steak. “You’reready?”

“Yes,” Ireply.

“Okay. Good.” He nods, then attacks his steak with his knife and fork as if it’s a race. “Didn’t want to push you, but if you’rethere. . .”

“Oh, I’mthere.”

“Eat up.” He nods toward my plate. “You’re going to need all the strength you canget.”

A deliciously naughty shiver runs through me. Now that’s what this relationship has been missing. Sex.Passion.

Hot kisses up against the wall in anightclub.

No.

Just thinking about that betrayal makes me feelsick.

We finish our meals, and Marc takes the plates to the kitchen and cleans up. He leaves me alone in the living room, and this time I have no hesitation. I flick the buttons on my blouse, exposing my white lacy bra underneath. I undo the zip on my skirt then wriggle out of it, sliding it over my hips and placing it on thecouch.

“Do you want . . .” Marc’s voice trailsoff.

I spin around, ready.Waiting.

He looks at me, his gaze running over my near-naked body. I push my chest forward, dart my tongue out to wet my lips. I’m a seductress, a black widow, and he’s fallen into myweb.

“Okay.” He nods simply, then gestures down the hall to the bedroom. “Give me oneminute.”

He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there in a state of I-don’t-know-the-hell-what. Confusion?Anger?

I glance to my clothes for help. I hadn’t expected him to sweep me off my feet, but I’d thought the sight of me in lingerie would at least have him acting somewhatexcited.

TheJust do itposter glares at me from above my discardedclothes.

Yes.

Just doit.

It’stime.

I follow Marc down the hall to thebedroom.

When I enter his room, my heart melts. Two large candles on either bedside table are lit, casting the room in a romantic glow. Marc shakes his hand, the match he was holding winking out, and in the half-light, he offers me a smile, those brilliant teeth almostglowing.

“Oh, Marc.” I walk toward him and press my mouth to his. How did I doubt this? We may not have everything in common, but things like this—romantic lighting so our first time could be perfect—how can I questionit?

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