It’s date night. Lips are glossed, hair is tousled, backless red dress is hopefully alluring, and important body parts are shaved and silky smooth. Now all I need is a date.

As if by magic, he appears, wearing dark jeans and a blue button down, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a bouquet of flowers.

“Too corny?” he asks, showing me the lovely arrangement of lilies he has for me.

“Not at all.” I smile, flinging my arms around his neck. “I love them.” I peck his cheek and then rush off to find a vase for the flowers.

After arranging the lilies, we set off for a fun night on the town. Our first real date together.

We step out the door, and Jonah turns to me. “Let me ask you a question.”

“Ok.”

“Are you ready to get your funk on?” He smiles, quirking his eyebrow up at me.

“Um, yes?”

He wraps his arm around me and leads me to his Jeep. “Come on, you’ll love it.”

And I do. When we step foot into the Virgil for Funkmosphere off of Santa Monica boulevard, I laugh.

It’s eclectic ambience and 1980’s disco theme has me rocking to the music. He swings me close as we travel to the bar. “This place is really cool, Jonah.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I figured you’d like it.”

I don't just like it, I love it. The old wood barstools swivel as we take a seat at the bar where old postcards lie beneath laminate. I glance around. Chipped paint peels off the walls. Vast colors of reds and blues cling together, trying to hold on. It’s a hodgepodge of modern and vintage, more vintage, though, and it is quickly becoming one of my favorite new places. Jonah orders me a drink, and then we dance a while.

We shake to the tunes of Boy George and Wham! I can’t stop laughing at Jonah dancing. He’s great in the bedroom, but, um, not so great on the dance floor.

He’s mine, though, and that’s all I care about. Gidget can teach him to dance.

He tugs me closer to him, his brown eyes hooded, and we sway to the beat of a slow number by Madonna.

This has been the perfect date. I love this side of Jonah. He’s no longer just a fantasy; he’s real. At the end of the night, as soon as we step through the door at home, he grapples at my clothes, removing them as quickly as he can.

“Let’s take a shower,” he murmurs between kisses, semi-walk-shuffling to the bathroom.

This sexual intensity is insane. Sometimes it’s a little scary. I can’t keep my hands off him. I want to touch him everywhere. He feels so good underneath my fingertips. It's almost as if I’m afraid this will always be the last time. Our clothes are gone by the time we reach the bathroom door. My reservations about whether this is deeper than just sex for him are blocked out by the time he starts the shower. He pulls me in and drops to his knees in front of me. The hot water cascades off our bodies while he tongue fucks me. If it wasn’t for his arm wrapped around my waist, holding me up, I would be a puddle on the shower floor. It feels too good. My hand leaves an imprint on the steamy shower door as I try to steady myself. Before I can come, he rises and pushes me against it, with him behind me, and fists his hands through my wet hair.

It’s seductive. It’s naughty. And it’s all I’ve ever wanted

No words are spoken. Instead, we show our want, our need, our pure passion pushing and clinging onto the other. We are totally in tune with one another as he pumps inside me in the steam-filled shower. Everything feels like more tonight.

His hands in my hair. My hands all over his chest and stomach. Him covering my neck with kisses.

It’s the most intense thing I’ve ever felt.

And right before we both reach the pinnacle, he whispers, “I never want to lose you.”

Later, in bed, he pulls me closer, spooning behind me.

He seems a little broody and quiet.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing. I just need to tell you something.”

I flip over, facing him. “You can tell me anything.”

“Well,” his eyes roam my face, “what all do you remember about Vegas?”