He did—immediately—and we locked eyes as I drew away. I could still see the savage behind his carefully guarded expression, but I detected something else, and it definitely was not contrition or remorse.

The something else was akin to apprehension.

After a moment, he said, “Sorry.”

I studied him, waiting a moment to steady my breathing before attempting to speak. “No you’re not.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you.” He said the words as though they were meant to clarify his earlier apology.

I thought about that statement and understood the nuance behind his words. “I think you’re sorry if you upset me, but you’re not sorry you did it.”

A phantom smile claimed his features as the lights dimmed. Applause erupted around us. The host, Peter Sagal, took the stage.

I took advantage of the dark to sort through my feelings about what had just occurred. I decided that normal, well-adjusted Sandra—who was looking for a life partner—would likely have been very concerned if, on a first date, the man had forcefully brought her hand to his crotch. Possibly, this was because the kind of men well-adjusted Sandra dated weren’t the kind to display animalistic tendencies.

They were very, very safe.

However, Alex was not life-partner material. He was not safe. And instead of feeling outraged, I was delightfully, yet surprisingly, aroused. I’d purposefully worn the plunging red V-neck to get a reaction, and he’d given me one. I asked; he answered. And when I requested that he desist, he did. Immediately.

He wanted me. I wanted him. This was a frightening and thrilling prospect, because when I pushed him, he pushed back.

I was stirred from my musings by Alex’s light touch. The back of his hand caressed the back of mine, an intentional touch. My attention flickered from our hands to his face. As he held my gaze, his fingers entwined mine. He employed careful deliberateness and gave me every opportunity to remove my hand or reject his touch.

I didn’t.

And when our hands had mated—our fingers joined, our palms pressed together—he leaned toward me and placed a soft, lingering kiss on my cheek, like he couldn’t help himself.

Alex’s lips drifted to my ear, and his hot breath against my neck elicited goose bumps. “Remember that I’ve been watching you for over two years. You are the most exquisitely beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I’ll never say that you’re pretty, because that word is pathetically inadequate.”

He leaned back into his seat again, and our eyes locked. I felt the intensity of his words and his gaze burn straight through my clothes and skin to the marrow of my bones.

In the context of this being the very first time we’d ever gone out and paired with such a high degree of sincerity, it was an outrageous thing for him to say—especially if he believed it.

It was madness, and I absolutely loved it.

In that moment, I was completely certain of one thing: Alex did not disdain social norms. Rather, it was simply that, on some fundamental level, he did not know how to behave.

He was raw, reactionary—like a live wire—and perhaps to me, just as dangerous.

***

I didn’t quite recover from BonerGate until about a quarter of the way through the show when Paula Poundstone—one of the panel members and a comedian—said something so ridiculous that my laughter helped me relax.

Halfway through I noted that Alex and I were still holding hands; not only that, but at some point in the evening, without my noticing, he’d moved our hands back to his lap and mine lay in both of his. They rested prosaically on his thigh—unfortunately, nowhere near his penis—and he was playing with my fingers absentmindedly. His attention was focused solely on the show, but he was cradling my hand in one of his and tracing my knuckles with the fingertips of the other.

Every so often, his thumb drew circles on the inside of my wrist. When this happened, I had to beat down my ever increasing, and now engorged, desire with a mental club.

The other item of note was his familiarity with global current events. He apparently knew about US-Chinese trade policy and the Mexican candidates for president, because when topic-specific jokes were made, he laughed when appropriate. In fact, twice I had to whisper-ask him to explain the joke, and he did.

My lust for Alex was quickly turning into a crush.

I took advantage of his absorption in the performance and watched his profile. He usually looked so guarded at the restaurant, but here he wore a permasmile, and his laugh gave me flutterings every time.

When the performance was over and it was time for us to applaud, his fingers tightened momentarily around mine; I thought he wasn’t going to release me.

But he did.

His gaze flickered to mine then to our tangled fingers. After a beat, he opened his grip and set me free. We both stood to join the rest of the audience in their ovation of the performers.

While I was clapping, he leaned over and said, “I’m going to put this in your pocket.”

I glanced down and found he held a slip of white paper.

“Okay.” I shrugged, still clapping; “What is it?”

“It’s directions to a coffee shop. Can you meet me there in twenty minutes?”

I couldn’t help the amused disbelief that caused my nose to wrinkle. “What? Where are you going?”

He stuffed the paper in the back pocket of my jeans with measured, surreptitious movements, though he never took his eyes from mine. “Sometimes it’s really crowded. I’m going to leave now and get a good table.”

“I’ll come with you….”

“No. Stay here. They have a meet and greet after the show. Go shake Karl Cassel’s hand.”

And with that, Alex shook my hand, said, “I’m glad you came. I’ll see you soon,” then turned abruptly and left the auditorium.

***

When I stepped into the nearly empty coffee shop, Alex stood from his secluded corner table and crossed to me. Then, he kissed me. That’s right, full on, hungry, urgent, impatient, tongue in my mouth kissed me. I was just catching up to the kiss when he pulled away and took my purse with him.

He rifled through it, pulled out my phone, and removed the battery. He then slipped the battery in his pocket and placed the phone back in my purse.

He did all this so quickly and efficiently that I still hadn’t quite recovered from the kiss when he placed the purse back in my hands. I blinked at him, his pocket, my purse, and opened my mouth to quack like a duck—because that felt like the only thing to do when faced with someone who was so obviously insane.

Before I could utter a word, he said, “I ordered you a soy latte—that’s what you drink, right?”

I nodded, though I gave him my very best are-you-smoking-crack face.

He knotted his hand with mine and pulled me back to the corner table he’d claimed.

He pulled out my chair, gestured for me to sit, then sat across from me.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

He smiled.

“So-o-o….” I said.

“Yes?”

I pulled the gloves from my hands, removed my hood, then did jazz fingers in the air above my shoulders. “So-o-o many questions.”

He lifted his black eyebrows, a small smile playing around his mouth, and I noted that he looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. “Please. Ask me anything.”

“Ditching me after the show. Why’d you do that?”

“If I was being followed by the NSA or any other federal agency, I wanted to lose them before we met for coffee.”

I chuckled. “That’s cute. NSA as in the National Security Agency? And I guess that also explains the phone? Afraid they’ll use it to listen in on our nefarious plans?”

“Of course. But also, I don’t want us to be interrupted by any phone calls.”

I frowned. “I wouldn’t answer my cell unless it was important.”

“But you’d check, if someone texted you or called. I want your undivided attention.”

“I see.” I sipped my latte. It had two shots of espresso. Sleep was now out of the question. “How old are you, Alex?”

He appeared completely at ease, but he watched me for a moment then stalled further by sipping his coffee. I wondered if it were caffeinated.

Finally, he asked, “Does it matter?”

“Maybe. Depends on how old you are.”

“I’m legal.”

His response made me laugh, and I felt his eyes on me—watchful, heated, penetrating—as he waited for me to respond. Though he returned my smile, his was brittle. I unzipped my coat—not all the way, just to my abdomen—and sighed.

“You’re eighteen then?”

“No. I’m older than that.”

“Nineteen?”

Alex drew in an audible breath; his chest expanded and he glanced to the left.

“Because I’m twenty-eight, Alex.”

“So?”

“So if you’re nineteen, then I’m nine years older than you.”

“I’m not nineteen.”

“But I am older than you.”

“And?”

“And shouldn’t you be chasing girls your age and not going to NPR radio tapings about global current events with older women?”

“I think you just answered your own question.” His tone was flat.