He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, this is it. Now let’s find you something to wear.”
I follow him through the double doors into the “bed” room. Dimitri doesn’t turn on the light, but the dim illumination from the adjoining room aids me enough to get a look around. The room is large but sparsely furnished. Apart from the bed there’s only a chair and a huge, colorful painting of a bird, its wings spread, rising out of what look like flames. A phoenix, I think to myself; no doubt he’s painted it. It’s signature Dimitri, dark and sensual. Floor to ceiling red drapes cover the far wall of the room. While Dimitri disappears into a cavernous walk-in closet, I cross the room to look out the window. I pull back the curtain and stand in awe of the view outside the oversized picture window. It’s a clear night. The view from his third story window goes on and on, unobstructed. The moon is full and exceptionally bright, I can see an outline of the mountains in the near distance. “Wow,” I whisper to myself.
Dimitri’s arms wind around my waist from behind and he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Mmm, it really is.” I place my hands over his arms at my waist and realize that they’re naked. I turn to face him and he takes my breath away. He must have changed while he was in the closet. He stands before me in only a worn pair of jeans. I flash back to the day in my kitchen when he took off his wet shirt. Dimitri standing in the moonlight is even better. He is lean, but sculpted. Every muscle defined and visible across his stomach, chest and down his arms. His jeans ride low and expose the tops of hip bones.
He retrieves a T-shirt and a pair of sweats from the bed and hands them to me. “These are the smallest clothes I have. I know they’ll be big on you. Sorry. You can change right here if you like … I don’t mind.”
I smile. “Yeah? You don’t mind at all?”
“Not at all.”
“Mmm, tempting. But the thing is I have a strict one striptease per year rule. And unfortunately for you, it seems I prematurely performed it just last week.”
He smiles wryly and raises an eyebrow. “Last week you say?”
I’m enjoying flirting with him. “That’s what I said.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Tragic. Just me alone in my bedroom with not even a single, solitary, horny, perverted, desperate man ready to tuck dollar bills into my barely legal g-string; a complete waste.”
He laughs. “Call me next year. I shall arrive utterly desperate and armed with loads of dollar bills.”
My poker face has vanished and I’m half-laughing. “Awesome, because there’s nothing I hate more than to put on a stellar performance and not be rewarded.”
He’s quiet for a moment and a sincere smile flashes as he shakes his head. “You’re something else, Ronnie … I love being with you.” It’s unexpectedly genuine given our playful banter. He gestures over his shoulder. “You can use my bathroom.”
I wink. “Thanks.”
His bathroom is the size of my bedroom, maybe bigger. Again it looks like something from a movie, all marble and shiny fixtures. I can’t believe real people actually live like this. I change into his clothes and pause to bury my face in the shirt. It smells like him—masculine and clean. It must be his cologne. Or maybe it’s just him. The pants are big, but I cinch up the drawstring and cuff the bottoms. I throw my dress and his jacket unceremoniously over my arm, turn off the light and walk back out into the bedroom. “Dimitri?” I whisper quietly. I don’t know why I’m whispering; we’re the only two people in this gigantic house.
“I’m out here,” he calls from the adjoining room. He’s stretched out on the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table. And I thank God (I actually say “hallelujah” under my breath) when I see he’s wearing a T-shirt. I’ll be able to focus, and perhaps carry on a semi-intelligent conversation now, instead of just ogling shamelessly at his body for the rest of the night.
“Here’s your coat. Thanks.”
“You can just hang it on the door knob. I need to send it to the cleaners anyway. Let me see your dress. How bad is it?”
I hold up the dress and pull back the ripped seam to expose the damage.
He whistles. “Damn, Ronnie. There’s not much left to it, is there? What are you going to tell your mom?”
“Maybe I’ll tell her we were wrestling.”
He responds with his mischievous grin, “We were wrestling … and I think you may have even been winning.”
My cheeks flush at the very recent memory.
He pats the sofa next to him. “Come and sit with me.”
I sit down on the sofa sideways facing him, pulling my feet up and crossing my legs. Effectively restraining myself, it’s not quite as tempting to continue the “wrestling” match if I’m not touching him. He turns sideways as well, pulling his knees up and casually wrapping them in his long arms. He rests his chin on his knees and the innocent, angelic smile that I love so much is there on his lips and beaming from his eyes.
A sense of calm has settled over me, and I notice he’s turned on the stereo and there’s music playing softly in the background. It’s a live, acoustic recording of my favorite band. “I love this CD,” I say smiling in recognition.
“I know. I remember hearing it playing in your car the day we went to your house for lunch. I decided to buy it. I was curious.”
We sit in silence listening to the song play out. All the while he brushes the tip of his index finger along the leading edge of my toes, never taking his eyes off mine. As the song finishes he asks, “What is it about them, the band I mean, that’s so appealing to you? Don’t get me wrong, I like their music too, but why are they your favorite?”
My obsession with this band has not escaped his notice: the stickers on Jezebel’s window and inside my locker, the patch on my bag, the T-shirts, the keychain … it’s a legendary obsession. I listen to music nonstop, but this band is my absolute favorite. “Honestly?”
He nods. “Honestly.”
“Honestly, it’s because the lead singer may possibly be the sexiest man on the planet.”
“Baby, I hate to break this to you, but I think you may have lost your mind. He’s a great singer and a talented guitar player, but I’ve seen photos of him. He’s nothing, if not average. I thought you were into handsome men?” He adds with a smile and a wink.
I roll my eyes. “Commercial beauty and sexiness are not mutually exclusive, Dimitri. I have to admit the first time I saw him I didn’t look twice at him; he was just average, as you put it. But then I listened to his music and fell in love with him. His songs aren’t just songs, he writes beautiful stories. I love to write stories myself, and admire anyone that can express themselves through words … or lyrics. He puts every ounce of himself into every song. His love songs aren’t just sappy love songs either. You get the sense that he deeply loves women, or at least the one he wrote the song about—and not just horny, sex-driven love, but respectful, passionate, I-would-walk-through-fire-for-you love. Oh, and as you mentioned, he’s a phenomenal singer and guitar player, too. I guess he probably is only average looking; I don’t see that anymore. When you consider everything else—the whole package—that’s what makes him incredibly sexy.”
He tilts his head and rests his cheek on his knees. “Okay, I’m intrigued. What else is sexy?”
“Seriously?
“Seriously.”
“That depends on the person I suppose, but there are a few things that are universal …” I pause.
“And they are?” He’s still curious and patiently waiting. I have his full attention.
I proceed slowly and allow myself time to completely form each thought before speaking. “Number one is confidence—not arrogance, there’s a distinct difference. Talent—especially when it’s allowed to completely develop. Passion—the never-ending, unyielding pursuit of whatever drives and inspires you. Quick wit—a wicked sense of humor is always sexy. Genuine adoration—whether it is a man for a woman, a man for a man, or even a parent
for his child—it’s breathtaking when it’s real. Acoustic guitar … beautiful eyes and lips—I’m a sucker for a great smile … oh, and Converse.”
His eyes are full of wonder and contemplation until I complete my last thought and then he laughs. “Converse, as in the shoes?”
“Yes, Converse. Guys look really hot in them.”
I don’t think it sounds so crazy—guys do look really hot in Chuck Taylors—but he’s still eyeing me suspiciously. After he’s convinced I’m serious he nods and concedes with a smile. “I guess I’ll have to buy a pair.”
“Yes, yes you will. No respectable hot guy’s wardrobe is complete without them.” I’m curious now. “Your turn. What’s sexy?”
“Mmm … your list is tough to follow. You’re quite articulate. My list would make me sound like such a typical guy.”
“Dimitri, you’re the most atypical guy I’ve ever met. Let’s hear it.”
“The way you look tonight.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed the dress, while it lasted.”
“I wasn’t referring to the dress,” he says as he leans his head back, closes his eyes, and sighs before looking at me again. “Though that particular image will make its way into my dreams for years to come I’m sure.” Then he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a face. “See, I sound like such a guy. I was talking about you sitting here, on my sofa, in my room, in my clothes. It’s even better than the dress. You’re just Ronnie, being Ronnie, and that is always sexy. You’re so comfortable in your own skin. You are who you are, no apologies. You were right; confidence is definitely at the top of the list. But I think you forgot a few.”
I smile. “Enlighten me.”
“Attitude—a positive attitude. Intelligence … commitment … genuine kindness … brunettes … black, lacy undergarments … and a nice-fitting pair of jeans.”
I laugh. “I was with you up until the jeans. Wait a minute … stand up.”
“What?”
“Stand up,” I order.
He stands reluctantly.
“Lift your shirt and turn around … slowly.”
The corner of his mouth turns up into what I’m sure will end as the mischievous grin and he obeys. He lifts his T-shirt with one hand to reveal his perfect abs. His jeans hang loosely just below the top of his protruding hip bones. A thin band of maroon boxer shorts peeks above the waistband of the jeans in the back as he turns slowly. He’s enjoying this. He pauses as he completes the circle facing me again and drops his shirt. He raises an eyebrow. “And?”
It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to keep from leaping off the sofa and tearing his shirt off. Somehow I manage to keep my voice even. “I see your point. Maybe I’ll add the jeans to my list.” I can’t hold back my own roguish smile any longer.
He takes off his glasses and gingerly places them on the coffee table next to him. Momentum brings him forward until he’s leaning into me, his hands resting fully on my upper thighs. He stops when his face is an inch from mine and I inhale abruptly. I look forward to every second his lips are on mine, but this moment feels different. I’m alone with him in an empty house, in his bedroom. It’s very late and this evening has already been very romantic: the slow dancing, the dinner, the episode on the rug and the recent conversation. I know what he must be building up to—expecting even—and I need to speak up before I get caught up in the moment, myself.
I put my hand on his chest and hold him firmly before he closes the gap entirely. I look down at my lap and the words come tumbling out as an apologetic whisper, “Dimitri, I can’t do this … I mean, I know what you must be expecting right now and I am so sorry if I gave you the wrong idea … I mean, if I led you on in any way.” I pinch my eyes shut. “I know I did. I’m so, so sorry.”
He puts his hand under my chin and raises it slowly until it’s even with his. Tilting his head he pulls his face back slightly from mine. He’s studying me. There is no trace of a smile on his face. I wait. His eyes are so mature, but there’s a softness that makes the knot in my stomach begin to unwind. His voice is low, that of a man twice his age, “Ronnie, please don’t let me give you the wrong impression. I know I tease you a lot, but we aren’t going to do anything that you don’t want to do. I know you have boundaries.” He pauses, obviously searching for the right words. He gently strokes my hair. “You are what I want … sex can wait.”
I look down again fumbling with the frayed hem on the T-shirt I’m wearing, unable to meet his eyes. “What if it has to wait a long time? You’re a sixteen-year-old guy. I know how sixteen-year-old guys think. My best friends are guys remember? We talk. It’s almost all they think about. Don’t tell me you’re the exception to that rule. I’m sure there a dozen girls that I could call right now that would come over this minute and sleep with you without hesitation. It’s not that I don’t want to be with you that way … God, it’s almost all I think about—kissing you, touching your bare skin. But I can’t be that girl. Accidents happen. I have to be responsible. Everything has a certain order in my world.”
His voice is soft and deliberate. “Ronnie … Ronnie, please look at me.”
I slowly raise my head. There are tears in my eyes. His eyes are pleading, “Ronnie, please believe me when I tell you this: even if you told me you would never sleep with me … if I had to trade that in return for spending the rest of my life with just you … I would choose you. You’re right, I am a guy and you’re the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen. I think about you physically, about you and me together physically, two hundred times a day. I dream about it. But that’s enough for me for now. I can wait. Think about the conversation we just had, was sex on our short list?”
I shake my head.
He cradles my face between his hands with the lightest touch, as if I were breakable. “No, it wasn’t.”
A sense of relief washes over me. I whisper, “Thank you … for understanding. Most guys don’t.”
He smiles. “And those guys were incredibly stupid if they were willing to lose you over it. Lucky for me though,” he says, winking, “Patience is one of my best qualities.”
I sit there staring at him leaning on the sofa in front of me. It’s as though I’m looking at him through a new set of eyes and he’s more attractive than ever. It’s funny how beauty radiates out of some people. It’s at the core of their being and reveals itself bit by bit as you get to know them. Dimitri is flawless on the outside, but it appears the real treasure is inside. Where did he come from?
I wipe the tears from my cheeks and manage to find my voice. “I realize I’m pushing my luck here and this is going to sound incredibly bold, but can I ask you for a favor?”
“An-y-thing,” he says, enunciating every syllable as if it is three separate words.
“Now that you know the rules … will you kiss me … now … please?” my whispers are practically pleas.
“You, my dear, may push your luck anytime.” He smiles playfully, raising an eyebrow. “And I implore you to be bold more often.”
We lay on the sofa facing each other. The kisses are sweet and go on and on into the wee hours of the morning. I’ve never been so comfortable or felt so safe with anyone before in my life.
To say that Dimitri is a dream come true is an understatement. I couldn’t dream up someone this perfect.
Life is sometimes … sexy.
Chapter 8
It’s me
Not you
Killing me
Perfect (pur’fikt) adj. Complete in all respects; without defect or omission; sound; flawless.
Sounds … well … perfect, right? Wrong.
Let me explain. My life has always been virtually perfect in all respects. Things generally go my way. Okay, they almost always go my way. I am admittedly spoiled and cannot remember a moment of true difficulty, let alone crisis, that I’ve personally experienced in all of my eighteen years. I’ve been there for friends who’ve been faced with some pretty unpleasant realities, though watching someone battle an
inner demon is nothing like experiencing it yourself. There’s a degree of separation, a buffer. As much as it kills you to know they’re suffering, at the end of the day it’s something you can distance yourself from if you choose. They can’t. It’s too intimate. I’ve never known that kind of intense turmoil and hope I never do. I’m not quite that naïve though. As the bumper sticker saying goes: shit happens.
I used to think of myself as a strong, confident, independent young woman who could meet any challenge head on. That was the Veronica in my mind. But lately, my belief in that Veronica is starting to waver, and it scares the hell out of me. Real life is rearing its head—a reality both beautiful and overwhelming—and I have no idea how to deal with the resulting stress. It’s hard to know how much of that stress I’ve created in my over-active mind.
My life, on the outside, still appears perfect. This makes me feel even worse, which undoubtedly adds to the stress. My guilt drives me to strive for perfection to perpetuate the illusion. It’s an exhausting cycle.
The past few months with Dimitri have been surreal. He’s the type of guy every girl dreams about. He’s gentle, kind, intelligent, and mature, all wrapped up inside a confident, attractive human being. One word sums up Dimitri—unbelievable. To anyone else, this sounds like an ideal partner, but to me, five months of “unbelievable” has gradually become un-believable. A distinct difference.
I don’t know what to believe anymore. I haven’t been able to find a flaw in Dimitri in the five months I’ve known him. It’s not an act. He is simply, genuinely amazing.
Perfect.
For some reason this makes me incredibly anxious. He’s so perfect that he doesn’t seem real. I can’t keep up. And I can’t measure up.
This relationship isn’t indicative of my past relationships (and I use the term “relationship” loosely within that context). I’ve dated several guys over the past few years. Attracting male attention has never been an issue for me. It’s not that I go looking for it, at least not the way someone like Chloe Murphy does. I don’t devise plans to lure boys in by being superficial or dressing like a slut. I just relate well to guys, they’re easy to talk to. Attraction seems to be a side effect. At least that’s my theory. I’m selective about who I date, though. I’m not generally one to date someone who pursues me. It somehow seems like settling or giving in if I’m not the one initiating the relationship. I realize that sounds completely self-absorbed and narcissistic, maybe it is, but I like to be in control. Obviously, I’m doing something wrong because none of the “past relationships” ever lasted. It’s equally divided as to who pulled the plug: