Je t'aime, tu sais?

Jamie admired her date as she gazed at him from her side of the cab. She watched him clench and unclench his chiseled jaw every so often, dropping his tall head down toward his shoulder to look up at the city buildings as they sped past a particularly bright one or two.
He seemed tense, she noticed; his big hands were folded in his lap, his ankles criss crossed and piled on the floor at the foot of his long legs. Through the soft material of his tuxedo, she could see the fine outlines of his quadriceps and their tight wind around his bony knees.
He was clean shaven for the event, but just the smallest prickle of shadow was beginning to emerge around his chin and mouth; she didn't mind at all. He still had a faint red stain on his cheek from where Jamie had pressed her lips into his skin, and as she remembered her lipsticked kiss, she blushed and smiled to herself.
His hair was thick and properly styled, short and propped up on his strong head.
"You alright?" She asked quietly, reaching over to him in the darkness of the cab. She rubbed her finger on his cheek, trying to reduce the leftover red paint. His cheeks were the only part of his body that if you applied pressure, you were met with soft flesh as opposed to hard muscle. However, this was not for long as she felt his cheeks tighten as he smiled and looked to her over the crown of her knuckles, working in his skin.
"Oh, yeah, yeah," he said, nonchalantly, placing his big hand over hers as she finished. They found their way to his hard thigh as he did his best to give her a smile but instead flashed her a pathetically nervous front row of teeth. She couldn't help but laugh a bit.
"It's just a little black tie event," she reminded him. Perhaps he was nervous to meet some of her colleagues.
"Just a little one, yeah," he said, chuckling.
"Oh, Patrice," she cooed, sliding over to him in the back bench of the cab. She rubbed his thigh a bit, giving him a reassuring smile. "You're just going to spend the night hanging out with a bunch of us math dorks, all trying to look nice in pretty outfits; you'll be fine."
"Math dorks? You guys are like, going to cure cancer," he laughed, rubbing her forearm as she reassuringly stroked his thigh. She sat up and wrapped an arm around his broad shoulders, careful not to crinkle his grey, cashmere scarf, his only article of clothing for warmth. She tried a different approach.
"You really look wonderful tonight," she said, playing with the thread dangling from the bottom of his scarf.
"Yeah?" He asked wearily, raising an eyebrow and meeting her gaze as if skeptical; not of her compliment, but of his attempt to dress himself impeccably.
"Yeah," she said in confirmation, leaning her head on his shoulder to rest and folding her hands to sit in his lap. She felt him smile and take a steadying breath as he took her hands in his own.

It's not so bad; this isn't so bad, he thought to himself, standing alone and gripping his champagne glass far more tightly than he probably should. Some old guy nodded to him as he made his way to the hors d'oeuvres; Patrice smiled uncomfortably and nodded back. He probably knows you almost failed math in Grade 10, you idiot, he thought to himself.
In the odd situation in which he doubted himself, Patrice always seemed to forget that he was somewhat famous; if someone looked at him, he never thought that maybe they were having trouble recognizing him, or even were pleased to be around him, but rather, he automatically projected the way he felt about himself upon the stranger.
Ok, ok, be cool. Everything's fine; it could be worse, I mean, at least she's introducing you by your name, so, at least that's not as bad as, "this is my FRIEND"... You're fine Patrice. You're cool. Play it cool.
He wasn't though.
He felt like the exact opposite of cool.
He felt like an idiot, and he felt like everyone knew he was just some meat head hockey player from Canada. He was such a meat head that he couldn't even pronounce his "th"s the right way; they were going to know. They were going to think he was so dumb.
He sighed and scratched the bit of his jaw that jutted out from his thin, tough neck.
He already needed to shave again.
He didn't think he had been this nervous since the morning he woke up in a hotel room in Nashville with his dad and he had to put on that stupid yellow dress shirt and make his way down to the Draft.
Jamie had gone to the restroom ten minutes ago and got caught up talking to another older gentleman on the other side of the room in a beautiful navy tuxedo.
I could do navy... he caught himself thinking, running his right hand down his chest and stealing a look at his beautiful black get up. He shook his head as a waiter came by and offered him another glass of champagne which he gladly exchanged for his suddenly empty glass.
He wasn't being a baby, he attempted to assure himself. He had actually timed her to see how long she had been gone, and now that he had been standing idly by the hors d'oeuvres by himself for ten--he nervously checked his watch again--eleven minutes now, he decided he officially looked like an idiot and was left with nothing else to do but assure himself that everyone noticed him and his idiot-ness.
"Hors d'oeuvres?" another waitress asked him, offering him a small plate of some kind of pated duck.
"Oh, no, no; I'm all set, thank you," he breathed quickly in French. Fuck, he thought viciously to himself. The French offer had thrown him off and in a panic he had responded in his native tongue. The waitress gave him an odd look but nodded anyway, making her way to another group of people.
He clenched his free hand. You ruined it. These people know you're dumber than a bag of hammers now, buddy, his mind taunted him.
Jamie made eye contact with him and gave him a helpless smile, making her eyes big and blushing her cheeks. The man was inescapable, her look told him.
It's ok, don't worry, everything's great, his look told her--or, at least, he hoped it did.
"I'm sorry!" she mouthed, as the old man tossed his head back in laughter, unaware of their silent communication. How Patrice longed for her to return and be by his side, assuring him that he was fine, that he wasn't just some stupid bag of rocks capable of doing nothing much more than strapping on a pair of skates every once and a while.
That's how he knew something was different about Jamie. He never needed reassurance from anyone else; if he was unsure, he just tried harder until he knew he was giving at least an appropriate execution of whatever he had previously worried about.
This girl meant something to him; something new, something different.
Would he be crazy for thinking he loved her?
Too soon?
He laughed and waved, gesturing that he was absolutely enjoying himself while in fact he was shriveling up and dying on the inside, his lethal self-consciousness panging away at the inside of his hollow ribs.
He turned away from Jamie's view and looked at the food, hoping that maybe he could look occupied to the mass of intelligent people with admiring the baked brie, salmon bites, shrimp cocktail, etc.
He decided rather quickly that he was too nervous to eat. Knowing his luck he'd get something caught in his teeth or he'd eat a clove of garlic disguised as a completely benign cookie or something.
Shrimp? Gross. Not now; don't want to be that idiot with bad breath... What are these cucumber shits? Oh god, I'm sweating. It's official. Why am I too stupid to talk to these people?
He continued to worry.
He whirled around to look in Jamie's direction, thinking maybe he had heard his name.
To his great relief--or was it horror?--Jamie was pointing to him with a big smile on her face. He dumbly closed his mouth, which was ajar with surprise--nah, it was fear--at being singled out in the big room.
"Come here, mon amour!" She laughed, waving him over, excitedly and... dare he think it?... adoringly?
Patrice seemed to move across the room in slow motion.
He had this sickening feeling that everyone's eyes were on him, even though he knew it was impossible; there were at least 50 people in the great lounge, all collected in groups and talking and laughing animatedly. He took a steadying breath as each footfall seemed to shake the earth below him, attracting even more dreaded attention.
He looked at Jamie for reassurance; she had called him over, hadn't she? The older man she was speaking with continued his jovial conversation with her and caused her to blush. She brought her hand up to her lips, bashfully covering what Patrice could only dreamed he was hearing of her little, polite laugh. Her fingertips were coated in the most seductive bright red paint he had ever seen, and he imagined sucking on one of her fingers as he experienced a momentary lapse of sheer panic and lack of self-restraint.
He lowered the champagne glass he was holding and pulled on the collar of his white shirt, nervous about having to mingle again, embarrassed about the inappropriate thought he had just had, yet, slightly giddy she had referred to him as "mon amour."
Actually, he was worried his legs might give out as he took his place next to "son amour," apparently.
He would not argue.

Jamie was careful not to bite her lip for fear of turning her teeth red, but she definitely wanted to as Patrice cooly walked to her side after receiving her call.
She was a bit giddy with champagne, and hadn't minded a bit, calling over to him from across the lounge.
She also hadn't minded using "mon amour" and was happy to see that he didn't seem to mind either.
God, she just wanted to kiss him so, so badly.
"Patrice, this is Dr. Heidegger; he's the Dean of Mathematics at Harvard," she instead said, introducing two very important men in her life.
"Is that so?" Patrice asked, looking pleasantly surprised, raising his eyebrows. "Pleased to meet you," he extended a warm hand for greeting. The old man smiled and complied.
"Yes, I see you have captured the great mind of our youngest, brightest scholar," he laughed, gesturing to Jamie.
She pursed her lips and shook her head, "you really are quite flattering tonight, aren't you?" She joked, beaming at the older man and then flashing Patrice an excited smile. This man thought highly of her, and it was only in her best interest to entertain his sweet flattery, as if she ever wanted to be employed at the university, he was her one-way ticket in to a tenured position.
"She really is bright," Patrice nodded, sharing a bit of the laugh.
"Maybe you'll be the reason we get to keep her around Boston after she finishes that thesis of hers, eh?" The old man suggested enthusiastically. Patrice flushed a deeper red than she had ever witnessed before, and she quickly outstretched her hand to gently press on the small of his back reassuringly. He looked down for a moment and licked his lips; she saw him trying to formulate a response, but before he could reply, Dr. Heidegger continued.
"I hear you have a long career ahead of you in this city, my boy!" He exclaimed, clapping his own hand on Patrice's shoulder. Jamie couldn't help but notice his shoulder give way as a look of surprise claimed her date's face.
"Oh, uh," he struggled to reply.
"What, you think an old man like me wouldn't notice you?" Dr. Heidegger laughed, squinting up at Patrice with a playful smile on his face. Patrice was dumbfounded but managed a laugh, before the old man could say "Now how's about a Cup?" and walked away, chuckling to himself.

"I'm really sorry if this is totally overwhelming," Jamie said once they were finally alone. She rubbed his back.
"Wh-no, no; this is great," Patrice reassured her. She appreciated it, but she couldn't help but notice the sweat that had brimmed his hairline all night and the abundance of napkins he thought he had tossed inconspicuously into the trash can whenever they passed one.
He had done well though; he had met the Dean of Math, even the Headmaster of Harvard himself (who thankfully had no idea who he was--Jamie was even sweating on that one), and Sabrina, her advisor.
She had ordered him a gin and tonic at the wet bar, hoping the gin would calm his nerves and the tonic would calm his stomach, and he held it gingerly between his fingers. They were both glowing with empty glasses of champagne and were starving.
He gently slung an arm around her thin shoulders and held her close to him.
"Really, mon amour, it's great," he assured her, smiling.
She bit her lip, smiling all the more as her cheeks built up with blush, and then gasped and turned to him with her hands over her mouth. "My lipstick; it's on my teeth, I just know it!" She giggled and looked at him with big eyes, pleading for him to help her.
"Here, bathroom," Patrice laughed, ushering her towards the hallway, and using his free hand from around her shoulders to hold her champagne as they slipped between the heavy mahogany doors and out of the crowded lounge.
In the great foyer with the high ceilings, her heels echoed and bounced off of the mirrors and prestigious pictures of past scholars. She hugged herself and spun around, looking at the golden laden ceiling and the luxurious designs on the inside of the building. She was just so, so happy. She was in school and doing well, she felt pretty in her new black dress, she felt giddy with all the champagne she had had, and she had Patrice with her tonight, to enjoy it all.
"Hey," he whispered, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. "You have something on your teeth," he joked, his face centimeters from hers. "Just there..."
Their lips met and her evening was complete.
She closed her eyes in sheer bliss and though that she truly had it all.

His heart hammered against his chest as he stepped back from the kitchen counter to rip his arms out of his dress shirt.
When he crashed into her again a little plea of hunger escaped her lips and she tilted her head back and sighed gleefully, her hand guiding the back of his head as he placed kisses up and down the length of her neck.
She sat on his kitchen counter with her legs spread to fit his torso between them. She hadn't even kicked off her heels yet when Patrice had pressed her up against a wall and then lifted her to her elevated seat on his dark granite. With her height rearranged, her face was level with his so they could kiss one another without her having to crane her neck. She quite liked the arrangement; although the change in her height did come with a downside as she could no longer feel his manhood pressing up against her thigh like she could in the elevator just minutes prior. Another perk however involved her legs being at the perfect height to wrap around his stomach when the time came for them to move to bed.
She so desperately hoped they'd be moving to bed.
Her dress was haunched up around her hips so that she could spread her legs wide enough for him to lean on the counter between them.
She pulled his head away from her neck and leaned forward, pressing her soft lips to his wet ones as they both sighed.
The kiss was only gentle for a heartbeat of a second before they turned their faces and played sweet games with their tongues, breathing hard.
He groaned as her fingers found their way to his pecks and squeezed, one of his own heavy hands on the back of her neck, the other running up and down her black clad thigh. She felt his body shake.
"Take these off," he breathed in a moment's rest from her lips, gently pinching her tights. "Here," he whispered, not exhibiting enough self-control to wait for her answer, his hands grasping either side of her ribs under her arms and lifting her tiny body off of the counter top. She squealed in delight at his desire and his urgency and shimmied as she pulled her tights down her thighs.
He stepped back from the island again and delicately pulled her heels off, letting them fall to the ground from a safe height, seemingly unaware of their clank on the hardwood flooring. As he did so she pulled her legs up close to her, bent at the knees and pulled her tights off of her toes painted red.
Before she had the chance to let her legs drop again, he crashed into her, pulling her chest close to his naked one, pulling her hips to meet his bare stomach, and wrapping one of her legs around his torso; she quickly followed suit with the other leg.
He kissed her passionately and his hands found her face. Holding her tenderly and breathing heavily, he tried to calm himself and looked into her eyes.
For half a second she wondered if they were stopping.
She didn't want to.
He laughed and looked down at their bodies, his heaving chest and her hairless, toned thighs spread for his breathing, taught belly.
"What's... are you o--" she tried, worriedly, her hands in his hair.
He cut her off; "Jamie," he breathed, pulling her face close to his and breathing down her neck. He still wasn't able to look at her. "I want you. I want you so bad, mon amour."
Jamie bent forward, forcing him into eye contact. Her whole body buzzed with excitement, but at the same time felt numb with anticipation.
"Take me, then, Patrice," she dared him in a whisper.