H“You’re not wearing your watch,” he said. We were two drinks in and the crowd had thinned somewhat. The music had mellowed, atmospheric trip-hop.
“I’m not.”
His hand had slipped down between the two of us and encircled my wrist. “Where is it?”
“Upstairs.”
“I’ve come to depend on your watch.”
“It’s not TAG Heuer.”
“No. It’s Hermès,” he said.
“Wow. You’re good.”
He smiled, his thumb stroking my pulse point. “I’ve gotten very good at watches lately.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there, allowing myself to be hypnotized by his touch. When his hand moved from my wrist to my thigh, I flinched. “Watches, huh?”
“Watches.”
“What else are you good at?”
His eyes widened then, and he let loose one of his sly smiles. “Is that a trick question? All right, I’ll have a go. Football, I mean soccer … Tennis … Downhill skiing … Chess … Foxhunting…”
At that, I laughed. “Foxhunting?”
“I was just seeing if you were paying attention.” His fingertips slipped beneath the hemline of my skirt, grazing my knee. I was paying attention, all right.
“Rowing … Squash … Badminton … Poetry … Breakdancing…”
“The worm?”
“The worm,” he laughed. “You remember that, do you? I think I won you over with that.” His fingers were moving over my skin, sensual.
“I don’t know. ‘Won me over’ sounds a little strong.” I uncrossed my legs and watched as his hand found its way between my knees. He had large, beautifully wrought hands, long fingers.
“You were interested.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re interested now.”
I nodded. My heartbeat had begun to accelerate. I took the liberty to finish what little was left in my glass. He leaned into me. But he did not kiss me, I assumed because we were not alone. Because there was another couple two seats over, and a room half filled with strangers—most certainly with cell phones. It was probably for the best.
“Your turn, Solène. Tell me what you’re good at.”
“Watercolors. French. Ballet.”
“Ballet?” His hand had migrated north, his fingers pressing at the inside of my lower thigh.
“I used to do ballet. I was good.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Wasn’t good enough.”
“Mm.” He nodded, fingers mounting. “Go on.”
“Umm…” I was losing focus. “Running. Cooking. Pilates. Spinning.”
“I’m trying to picture you doing all those at once…”
I laughed, uneasy, under the spell of his touch. Trembling, intoxicated, wet.