Chapter 16: Actual Dinner
The silence stretched, thick as the cooling puttanesca sauce clinging to their plates. Ron shifted on Puck’s worn velvet couch, the fabric scratchy against his bare calves where his trousers were still bunched awkwardly around his knees. He’d hastily pulled them up after… after. The memory pulsed, hot and immediate, making the reheated garlic and chili taste suddenly sharp on his tongue. He focused on his fork, pushing a stray piece of penne around the chipped ceramic plate.
Across the low, cluttered coffee table, Puck sat curled in her armchair, knees drawn up. She hadn’t moved much since they’d awkwardly disentangled themselves and wordlessly reheated the forgotten dinner. Her plate sat mostly untouched. Instead, her gaze was fixed on him, dark and unnervingly intense. Her raven hair was a wild halo, escaping the messy knot she’d attempted after… after. A faint sheen of sweat still glistened at her temples.
Ron cleared his throat, the sound loud in the incense-heavy quiet. "The… the sauce is still good," he offered lamely. "Spicy."
Puck blinked slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. Her eyes, usually sharp and assessing, held a dazed, unfocused quality. "Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Sauce." Her voice was husky, roughened. She picked up her fork, speared a single piece of pasta, brought it halfway to her mouth, then stopped. Her gaze drifted back to him, tracing the line of his jaw, the way his beige sweater clung slightly damply to his shoulders. Her finger, adorned with a chunky silver ring, absently traced the edge of her collar, pulling it away from her neck where faint red marks – his marks – were just visible.
"Did you… uh… get enough?" Ron tried again, desperate to fill the cavernous silence with something mundane. The dent in Susie’s car flashed in his mind again, absurdly juxtaposed with the visceral memory of Puck’s body shuddering against his, her cries echoing off the band posters.
Puck tilted her head, a slow, feline movement. Her lips curved into a small, distracted smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Enough?" she echoed, her voice low. "Ronnie, honey, you gave me…" She trailed off, her gaze dropping pointedly to his lap, then flicking back up, a spark of that earlier, raw hunger momentarily igniting in her eyes before softening back into haze. "Yeah. Enough. For now." She finally ate the single piece of pasta, chewing slowly, thoughtfully, her eyes never leaving him.
Ron felt heat creep up his neck. He took another bite, the flavors indistinct. The apartment felt charged, electric, despite the stillness. Stacks of graphic design magazines leaned precariously nearby. An empty coffee cup sat beside a half-finished sketchpad filled with bold, swirling lines. The scent of sex still lingered beneath the incense and reheated tomatoes, a potent, undeniable reminder. He watched Puck’s finger resume its idle tracing of her collar, dipping lower, brushing the swell of her breast above the lace of her bra visible beneath the sheer mesh top. The movement was unconscious, hypnotic.
He shouldn’t ask. He knew he shouldn’t. It was opening a door he wasn't sure he could close. But the question had been forming since the frantic tearing of leather, since the moment her desperation had shattered his careful world. It bubbled up, propelled by the sheer, disorienting force of what had just happened, by the unnerving intensity of her stare.
He put his fork down with a soft clink. Took a breath. The words felt thick, clumsy in his mouth. "So," he started, his voice quieter than he intended. He couldn't meet her eyes, focusing instead on a faded Bauhaus poster on the wall behind her. "How long…" He swallowed. "How long did you wanna ask me out for? Before… tonight?"
The air crackled. Puck froze. The distracted haze evaporated instantly from her eyes, replaced by a sharp, almost startled focus. Her finger stopped tracing her collar. She lowered her legs slowly, planting her feet flat on the floor. The playful confidence, the raw need, momentarily receded, leaving something more vulnerable, more calculating, in its wake. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, her gaze pinning him.
A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, wider this time, revealing a flash of white teeth. It wasn't entirely friendly. It held a hint of triumph, a touch of possessiveness. "Ask you out?" she repeated, her voice dropping to a low purr. "Oh, Ronnie." She chuckled softly, a dry sound. "Sweet, oblivious Ronnie." She shook her head, her dark hair shifting like spilled ink. "I didn't want to ask you out."
Ron blinked, confused. "But… tonight… you…"
"I didn't want to," she interrupted, her tone firming. "I needed to." Her eyes locked onto his, unwavering. "From the moment you walked into that godawful beige hellscape we call an office. Three months, two weeks, and…" she glanced at a chunky, vintage watch on her wrist, "...four days ago. Tuesday morning. You were wearing that sad gray cardigan. The one with the tiny hole near the elbow you think no one sees." She leaned even closer, the scent of her – sweat, leather, arousal, and beneath it, something uniquely Puck – washing over him. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "I knew. Right then. Knew you were mine. Knew I'd have you." Her smile widened, predatory and strangely tender. "Asking you out? That was just… logistics. Getting you alone. Getting you here." She gestured vaguely around the cluttered, intimate space. "Where I could finally show you what you were made for." Her gaze raked over him, hot and appraising. "And Ronnie? You delivered."