I've found that the closer the appointed time gets, the more excited and terrified I become at the same time. My heart is a drum. My stomach feels like it's full of birds. I start getting ready an hour and a half before eight, obsessively checking my reflection, changing earrings twice, smoothing my dress over and over as if the fabric can calm me.
By seven-thirty, I'm already sitting on the couch at home, knees pulled together, praying that my hair doesn't fall out, that my lipstick won't smudge, that my trembling hands won't give me away. I watch the clock hand closely. It ticks like thunder. Every second stretches, thick and syrupy, and I feel like I'm slowly going mad.
When the doorbell rings at exactly eight, I jump, the sound slicing through my thoughts. My heart leaps to my throat. I stand too quickly, nearly tripping on the carpet, and force myself to walk to the door.
"Good evening, Sara. You look beautiful today," he says smoothly, leaning slightly on the doorframe. His voice is low and steady, but his eyes sweep over me with heat.
I blush like a tomato. "Hi, Petr. You… you don't look bad today either." My smile feels shy and crooked.
"I'll put on my shoes and we can go," I murmur, bending down to slip them on.
It happens in an instant—my nail snags the pantyhose, and a neat, ugly run crawls up my calf. "Oh no…" I whisper, horrified.
Petr's already stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Do you have a problem?" he asks pleasantly, tilting his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Well, I… uh, I got a run in my stocking." My voice is a hiss of frustration. "Please, come in, sit down. I'll be back in a moment." My cheeks burn. Why now, of all times?
"Don't worry, I'll wait," he replies, his tone velvet-soft.
I retreat to the bedroom, muttering under my breath as I rummage through drawers. "There's wine in the fridge, pour yourself a drink!" I shout toward the living room, already pulling out a new pair of stockings with shaking hands.
Fifteen minutes later, I rush into the kitchen, still pinning my hair in place, but the sight that greets me stops me in my tracks.
Petr is leaning against the sink, a glass of red wine dangling from his fingers. He's looking out the window, the glow of the city casting shadows across his face. The black shirt he's wearing tonight clings just enough to hint at the strength beneath. He looks like a secret—dark, beautiful, and dangerous.
"Petr?" I say into the silence, my voice small.
He nods once, sets the glass gently in the sink, and turns to face me. There's something unreadable in his eyes.
I stay frozen, staring at his chest, at the slow rise and fall of his breathing. How is it possible to feel warm just by looking at someone? To tremble from a voice? A glance? My fingers itch to touch him, to trace the line of his jaw, to kiss those lips that have haunted me since the party.
"Shall we go?" he asks finally, but his tone is careful. Has he sensed the change in me—the heat rising, the way my body is practically begging for something I don't yet dare to name?
I swallow hard. My pulse roars. And then I blurt it out: "No, I don't want to go to dinner. I want to stay… with you."
The words hang between us like a live wire.
Petr exhales slowly, his eyes darkening. "I'm glad you said that," he murmurs, so softly I almost miss it. Then he closes the distance and kisses me.
It isn't tentative. It's hungry. His lips claim mine, and a wave of excitement shoots through me, settling low in my belly. My head spins with pleasure, and I clutch his shoulders tightly, grounding myself in his solidity.
Petr reaches up and starts pulling hairpins from my hair, one by one, until my carefully styled curls tumble down over my shoulders. I gasp, but then I'm laughing softly, my hands already at his shirt buttons, desperate to feel his skin.
He doesn't need prompting. His fingers slide down the zipper of my dress, slow but deliberate, and it pools at my feet with a soft whisper of fabric. His shirt follows.
He lifts me easily, setting me down against the cool countertop, his mouth trailing heat across my skin. When his hands find my breasts, I arch into his touch with a sound I don't recognize as my own. He moves lower, his fingers teasing my hips, and I can't help it—I move toward him, urging him on, trembling with need.
When we finally come together, it's a shock of warmth and electricity. His movements are slow at first, then deeper, more insistent, until everything else dissolves—the kitchen, the wine, the clock, the world. There is only this. Only him.
When it's over, we collapse into each other, breathless and shaking. My head rests against his shoulder as I try to calm my ragged breathing. I have never experienced anything so unbridled in my life. The realization hits me like a blow: I already love Petr.
"What about dinner?" I mutter against his skin, half-dazed.
"We already missed it," he murmurs back, brushing his thumb over my cheek. "But you know I don't mind at all. I'm glad we stayed here."
I laugh softly, still pressed against him.
"What are you laughing at, beautiful lady?" he asks, amusement in his voice.
"You know, I'd cook you something, but I'm an impossible cook. If an apple and a banana will do, I'll gladly peel it for you."
He chuckles, looking down at me. "Okay, I agree. But on one condition…" He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "That we move to the bedroom now, enjoy the whole night, and have that apple and banana for breakfast."
I purse my lips, pretending to think. "Hmm… tempting offer…"
He frowns dramatically, though a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Do you know what I've realized?" I say, my voice low and teasing. "That you can't be resisted at all."
I stand, take his hand, and pull him gently toward the bedroom.
"I know," he says with a grin, and I join him happily, already certain of what I want.