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I'm learning so much about myself. Apparently, being fondled in public turns me on. I also really like feeling free to be wanton while having a sexual experience. Sex with Kevin was . . . sex. We did it in bed. At night. He got on top of me. He came and then he got off.

We never made out, or flirted beyond this. At least not after our first year or so of dating. And even while we were in a place where we had sex more regularly, we always did it in bed with the lights off.

My experiences with Dean are completely foreign, yet it feels so natural.

We’re done eating dinner and sharing a tres leches dessert that feels as decadent and sinful as our entire evening.

I realize we never really got to date like this before. We were in high school, dates were movies and doing homework together. And even though we’ve already made love, and are in love, tonight feels special.

We’ve talked about everything from politics to religion. We had such different upbringings. He was raised in an agnostic household and called himself spiritual rather than religious. I was raised a devout Methodist. Yet, we had very similar views on issues of morality and ethics.

Dean talks a lot about his passion for seeking out and cultivating talent. Helping people find the right audience and making sure they don’t get taken advantage of. He joined the Creative Artists Agency straight out of business school and left after only two years to join Definitive Artists.

“So, Dean. What is your talent?” I ask him, letting him turn my hand over in his. His other hand comes up and starts to draw circles on my open palm.

He looks relaxed and happy.

“Seeing talent,” he says simply. “I'm good at knowing what other people are good at. I just need to spend some time with them in their natural habitat, and I can figure it out,” he says with such confidence and excitement. I'm so happy he's doing something he loves.

“When you’re not working, what do you do?”

“I work out, I read, and I listen to music. I learn the newest dance craze from Kidz Bop,” he deadpans.

I laugh out loud. I can’t help it.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I'm dead serious. It’s how I know what’s going to be hot next. The kids are always ahead of what adults are buying. One day, I’ll show you.”

And so, our conversation continues. We talk about Dean’s love for music, dance, and reading historical biographies. He’s reading Alexander Hamilton’s right now and tells me a great screenplay is floating around, looking for money to produce for Broadway.

I stifle a yawn and glance at my watch.

“Oh, my goodness, it’s almost ten thirty,” I exclaim as I glance around the restaurant for the first time in a while. The din is gone. The place is basically deserted, most of the tables have the chairs turned upside down on top of them.

I hadn’t noticed anything as Dean and I talked. I was totally absorbed in him and listening to him talk about college in California, business school in Chicago, and then life in New York. The only thing he hasn’t talked about is his mother. It’s not a subject I want to broach.

“Is it?” Dean says without looking away from me. “Time flies,” he says with a slow, sexy smile I feel in between my legs. I swallow hard and take a sip of my water.

“It does. But, I’ve got to get home. I have to be up early for soccer, and then I’ve got a ton of errands to run.”

I’m trying to sound casual. I wonder whether or not a man like Dean, one who seems to live in a world full of glamour, late nights and even later mornings, really wants to get involved with someone like me. I live by schedules and my son’s schedule always comes first.

“I understand, tonight was nice. It feels like we are getting to date. I like it. What are you doing Sunday?”

I scan my internal calendar quickly. Kevin’s picking up Anthony tomorrow afternoon and he's supposed to spend the night and come back Sunday morning.

“I could see you tomorrow night if you’re free,” I say trying to not to sound as unsure as I feel. I’ve never asked a man out; I’ve never been so forward. But this is Dean, he’s already mine in so many ways.

“Yes, I am. I can pick you up. Say around six?” he asks.

“Sure. What do you want to do?”

“I want to fuck you, Red,” he says immediately and my jaw actually drops.

“But, I think the question you’re asking is ‘what are we going to do?’” he murmurs as he leans across the table so that his mouth is close to mine.

“Yes, what are we going to do?” I whisper. I bring my head closer to his, too.

“I want to show you something, I think you’ll like it. Dress casually.” I feel a shiver of anticipation at the promise in his voice.

He leans forward a fraction and his lips brush mine. My eyes close from the absolute pleasure the touch brings. I lean in and flick my tongue out to lick his lips. His hand comes up to wrap around the nape of my neck and he takes control of our kiss. His tongue enters my mouth, probing, seeking, and then taking.

My hands come up on either side of his face and then dive into his hair and he groans into mouth as my hands rub his scalp.

Our kiss goes from passionate to wild. Dean’s other hand reaches out and he snakes his arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

Our teeth are clashing, our lips dueling, and I’ve never ever even known a kiss could be like this. I feel like I'm being allowed to reach for something spectacular for the first time in my life. I forget everything as we kiss, as we taste, explore and make promises for later.

And then the crash of plates as they hit the floor brings me crashing back down to earth. We are in a restaurant, in public, and if Dean had taken me right here and now I wouldn’t have stopped him.

“I can’t get enough of you. I can’t . . .” Dean says as he pulls back, the sounds of the restaurant pulling him back as well. He looks as dazed as I feel as he glances around.

“How did you get here tonight? Did you drive?” he asks me, still looking around. He seems nervous and it’s making me nervous, so I pull myself back from him and start to gather my things.

“No, I took an Uber. I was going to order another to get home,” I say as I pull my purse up from the seat.

He looks back at me, and grabs my hand that is reaching into my purse. “No, Red. I’ll take you home.” He smiles, focused on me again, whatever distracted him clearly forgotten. At least by him, but I’m not exactly comfortable.

“What’s wrong, you seem nervous,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m annoyed, but wanting him to know I’ve noticed.

He sighs and leans back in his chair with his eyes closed. He's very tan. I'm fascinated by him, and as I wait for him to speak, I just look at him. He's pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, and I'm struck by how gorgeous his hands are. So long, his fingernails, cut short, but not blunt, almost tapered, and he looks like he should play the piano.

He opens his eyes and those beautiful green pools stare at me for a minute before he starts to speak.

“I'm pretty well-known in entertainment circles. DC isn't exactly New York or Hollywood, but a lot of TV shows film here now. Celebrities use their platforms for causes they care about which means testifying before Congress. And where celebrities go, so do photographers. I represent some very, very famous people, and I do my best to make sure that I stay out of the spotlight.”

Understanding dawns as does some unease. The last thing I want is to be in the spotlight.

“So, making out like a horny teenager in public is probably not the best way to do this. I understand, I got carried away. It’s all of the delicious wine you plied me with tonight.” I try to lighten the mood with a joke, but I'm suddenly very concerned about getting involved with someone who lives any part of his life in the public eye.

“It’s not the wine. It’s just the way we make each other feel.” He drops a kiss on the tip of nose and stands up suddenly.

He puts his hand out for me to grab. “Honestly, most of the time no one cares about me. I’d just like to keep it that way. Are you ready?”

“Definitely, yes,” I say, and I'm ready. I need to think, and I can’t do that when I'm anywhere near this man.

“I think I’ll call that Uber. There is really no need for you to make that kind of drive tonight.” I start to dig in my purse for my phone.

He stills my movements with a hand laid across my forearm. I look up at him.

“I’m not driving, Greg is. And I’m not letting you go home in an Uber. That’s crazy.” He pulls me to standing and leads me out of the restaurant.

“Dean, I don’t need you to take me home; I don’t want you to think you can direct my life. I'm fine,” I insist, as I pull my hand out of his grasp.

He stops and blows out a breath.

“I'm not trying to direct your life,” he says slowly, like he's trying to be patient. I feel my ire rise. “I just want to make sure you get home safely. Forgive me if I'm not thrilled at the prospect of sticking you in the back of an Elantra driven by a total stranger. I know you’re capable of getting yourself home. Would you humor me and my paranoia and let me drive you home?”

I feel slightly ashamed. He was just being nice, and I'm being difficult, but I won’t go quietly into the night.

“Thank you. I’d love a ride, but please next time just ask me instead of ordering me.”

I turn and walk toward the door. I can feel the weight and the heat of Dean’s gaze on my back, and I add an extra twist to my hip with each step, just as I reach the door, I hear him groan.

It makes me smile.