Sharing a cab with someone I was growing insanely attracted to—and while wine-tipsy—turned out to be one of the biggest struggles of my life. But I succeeded; we succeeded. And as I found out later, after he'd dropped me off and placed a chaste but very tempting kiss on my cheek, Cameron had struggled as much as me.

The text I received within minutes of unlocking my door was proof of that.

Cameron: I can't tell you how hard it was to not kiss you on the mouth.

I squealed as I pressed my back to my door, fanning my face. Kiss you on the mouth—there was something so strangely erotic about that part of the sentence. My legs shivered as I envisioned all the possibilities, all the things that might have happened if we hadn't fought our urges. If he'd not kissed me on the cheek, but elsewhere.

I was a never before the third date kind of girl, when it came to getting physical. If I was going for something serious, that was. And with Cameron, things felt serious. It was more than physical attraction. We shared a special bond because of our high-demand jobs, and got on well enough that I could see myself dating him long-term. And though we hadn't necessarily talked about our hopes and dreams, I got that sense from him, too. Yes, we flirted, and yes, we were turned on by one another, but it appeared we were going to take things slow.

It was a risky text to send, assuming I'd experienced the same lust as him. He must have known that, because he followed it up with another:

Cameron: That's to say, I hope you'd like to see me again? Because I'd like to see you.

I fanned myself faster. Here I'd been thinking that his chaste kiss on the cheek was a polite way of saying he'd rather be friends. Or that I'd made a fool of myself, probably said some stuff I shouldn't have—when I was tipsy, I talked a lot—or that I wasn't his type.

Now I knew I'd been wrong.

Me: Sorry, I kept re-reading that first text to make sure I understood it correctly. Yes, I'd love to see you again.

That simple but sensual goodbye kiss on the cheek had left a wet, intrigued input on my soul, and I wanted more.

***

We texted every day, all day. He called me in the evenings so we could rehash our stressful days, exchange notes on what our crazy bosses asked of us. It'd be awhile before we'd be able to have another date, due to our schedules, but we figured if we kept chatting, kept up the conversation, we wouldn't lose momentum.

And we were correct.

I couldn't count the amount of times I got in trouble at work—mainly by Marshall—for being too distracted by my phone. Any other colleague would have asked me why I was smiling so much, why I was flustered when asked what I was doing. I'd have told them I was typing back witty responses, and they'd have asked what those witty responses were.

But not Marshall. Marshall hated my very existence and made sure I knew this at all times.

"Focus, damn you," he'd say if he walked in on me daydreaming about Cameron.

"Your constant texting is going to get me in trouble if you're not careful," he'd say if he found me messaging instead of working.

Daphne reprimanded me once or twice, too, but out of love; and when she told me off, she also snatched my phone from me to read our conversations.

"I haven't talked to someone like you in a very long time, he says. Ooooooh," she said one afternoon, mimicking what she thought was Cameron's voice. "It's like I've known you forever, ugh," she faked a gag, "you two are disgusting and you haven't even had sex yet." She sat up straight, keeping my phone out of reach as I sought to take it back. "When are you going to have sex?"

Daphne knew better than anyone about my three-date rule, so I rolled my eyes. "When the time is right."

"Okay," she glanced at her crimson-painted nails, "but when is that? Because I'm living vicariously through you and you're not giving me anything to salivate on, girl."

I ignored her and seized my phone back to stuff it into my drawer. "Get out of here. Marshall has been on a roll today with his insults and if he sees you encouraging me he'll yell again." I pointed at my ears. "His angry voice hurts."

"Fine," she said, swaying past the threshold into the main part of HQ. "I'll leave you alone to gush over your adorable crush." She turned to walk backwards, wiggling her eyebrows. "Tell him to send you another yummy picture of his—"

"—Daphne!" I gestured at Mr. Ivy's door. "He's in there now!"

She waved at me and disappeared.

The picture she'd referred to was one of him in a towel, after a shower. Not a dick pic, like Daphne had implied for all in the office to hear. But oh, what a picture it was. If I had a printer I'd have blown the image up and plastered it on my wall to drool over every night before bed. The nearly painted-on abs, the perfection of his chest, the sparse black hairs curled between his pectorals. And that sly little smirk he wore; I'd gotten wet staring at the image one time too many.

Cameron didn't need to know all that, but I did tell him how much I appreciated the picture. I sent one of my own in a similar situation—freshly toweled, out of the shower, damp hair drizzling over my bare shoulder. I rarely shared images like that with anyone, but for him, I made an effort.

His response was worth it. "God, you're so fucking hot, Emma. I hope I eventually get to see what's underneath that towel," he'd texted. I melted immediately.

Three weeks after our first date—yes, I was counting—he sent me the text I'd been waiting for.

Cameron: I know this is last-minute, but are you free tonight for a drink? It's been a week.

Knowing what he was talking about—some drama with a news outlet that was reporting false information about Leo—I checked my calendar. On some Fridays I went out with Daphne, but on this particular Friday, I was free. And in any case, Daphne would have told me to cancel with her so I could go get some.

Me: Tell me where and when.

It sounded desperate, but I was desperate for a drink, and eager to see Cameron face-to-face again. All that texting had built up my appetite for him, and I needed a taste; a real one.

We met at Melody's Piano Bar, a cocktail place between the Upper East Side and Lenox Hill. Classy, with palm trees on the wallpaper and live music. I loved the atmosphere the second I stepped inside.

I spotted him in the crowd, sitting at a corner table. He caught my approach, and stood to welcome me, smiling. He'd put on a logo t-shirt, looser jeans than usual, and those signature Converse shoes that he told me he wore almost everywhere.

I was wearing a cozy but sexy maxi-dress; it was casual Friday at work today, and as much as Mr. Ivy hated the tradition, he allowed it. Maxi-dresses were his enemy, too, so I'd worn this one on purpose.

"Wow," Cameron said, eyeing me from head to toe as he pushed a drink towards me; I'd sent him my order on the Uber ride over. "Are we going to a wedding after this? Or to some snazzy restaurant you didn't tell me about?"

I hugged him, pressing myself into him, absorbing his scent; spice and sugar. Like a burnt caramel with a hint of hot pepper. I loved it. "This is a casual dress, Cameron," I said, sneering playfully. "Sheesh, this is why I work in fashion, and you in music."

He smirked as he shook his head. "Everyone must be having a day like us," he gestured to the packed room, "because this place is not normally so busy."

I clinked my glass with his. He'd ordered something with an amber hue to it, and I had a mojito. I sat on the stool opposite him and stretched my legs. "Freaky Friday? Or is that a reference people will only link to the movie?"

He reached across the table and set his hand on mine, surprising me. "In all seriousness, it's good to see you, Emma. As much as I've loved texting you twenty-four seven and chatting with you over FaceTime, it's so much better in person."

I slid my fingers between his, realizing how much I'd craved this minuscule moment of physical contact. The beginning of intimacy. So insignificant to some, but to me, holding hands was private, sensual, and necessary. "Agreed. Especially after those pictures," I slurped up some mojito through my straw, "I definitely wanted to see you."

His eyes opened wide and he lowered his chin. "That was too forward, wasn't it? I'm so sorry." The way he flushed and looked anywhere but at me was priceless.

I squeezed his hand, drawing his gaze back to mine. "It wasn't. We've been talking for weeks now, Cameron. Maybe months, I can't even tell anymore." I gritted my teeth, well aware of my lie, since I knew exactly how long it'd been since we'd exchanged numbers.

He smiled, his lips parting slightly. "All this time and I still haven't given you a proper kiss, have I? I've been so busy, but all I do is think about how much I want to kiss you."

I batted my lashes and sensed my skin melting, heat forming over every exposed area. "Wow," I said, biting my lower lip. "So we're being forward tonight, are we? Better drain this drink to get comfortable."

I pulled my beverage closer to me, but Cameron stood up and fixed his t-shirt as he walked around the table to the empty stool beside me.

"I like you, Emma." He gently brushed a few hairs from my forehead, and I shivered at his fingertips touching me. "And I know you're not that kind of girl; the one who gives in fast, but...I'm not trying to push, but it's almost as if we've been on several dates, yeah?"

I gulped. "Yes." To say I hadn't thought about this would be another lie. My rule was three dates, but our constant texting could have been considered multiple dates, for sure. I battled my conscience, my self-doubt, searching for the right words to say to not screw this up. I wanted him. Fuck my rules. "Yes, it definitely feels like we've been out several times."

Something bubbled up inside me; some long repressed lust I hadn't had a chance to release in months. It had been about six or seven since my last spin in the sheets. As much as I wanted Cameron, I also didn't want him just for this. I liked him, his personality, his demeanor, everything he represented. His cute smile, his charm, the way he spoke of himself and his job and his passions. The way he held my interest even when we were staring at each other through the screen.

"I like you too, FYI," I said, so softly I wasn't sure he'd heard me.

But he did, and he brought my hand to his lips, pressing a subtle, sexy kiss on my knuckles, old-school style. "So can we skip this public bullshit, this crowded bar, and go straight back to my place?"

My eyebrows raised with such speed that I forgot to take a breath. I tilted backwards and let out a gasp, fearing I was going to fall off the chair. I panicked as I foresaw myself hitting the floor; a sticky, alcohol covered surface that would stain my dress and make it smell like spilled liquor even after several washes.

"Hey," he said, catching me before I collapsed, his hand pressed to the small of my back. "Ah, fuck, I went and ruined it, didn't I?" Once I was settled on my stool, he rubbed his forehead. "That was too forward. I came off as a pushy jerk and I spooked you. Shit. I'm sorry."

Once I regained a sense of myself, of what had happened, of what he'd said, I fixed him with the most serious stare I could muster. While he had taken me by surprise, he hadn't offended me or come off as pushy at all. I wanted the same thing, but I hadn't been so bold about it...until now.

"No." I set a hand on his shoulder, concealing my awe at how sturdy it was. "I'm not spooked, only...surprised, is all. You're right; I'm not that kind of girl, unless we straight up establish that we're only in this for one thing."

"I'm not," he said, strikingly fast, barely letting me finish my sentence. "I'm interested in you. Emma, you're nothing like anyone I've ever met, and I know how cliché that sounds, but it's the truth."

I squeezed his shoulder harder. "And I'm interested in you. This idea you had about leaving..." I peered around the loaded room, gathering my courage, ignoring my conscience as it screamed at me to take it slow. "I'm also interested in that."

He didn't wait for me to change my mind. He settled the bill for the two drinks, we downed what was left in our cups, and hurried out. Within minutes, an Uber popped up at the curb—I didn't see him order one—and we hopped in, sitting next to each other somehow still not touching. We couldn't even look at one another, because we both knew what would happen when and if we did. Heat flared between us, sizzling, so intense it was almost unbearable.

But I didn't want our first time together to be in the back-seat of an Uber.

♪♪♪