Amber was a breath away one second, and then jerking out of his arms the next. Foreman hadn't expected much better when he'd called a halt. He snorted lightly as she pulled herself primly upright, like a cat offended that it had to pick its way through a puddle. He'd hoped she wouldn't pull away; he'd been relaxing easily, holding her, ignoring the fact that their waitress was probably waiting impatiently to get them out of her station instead of letting a second round of coffee go cold in front of them.

He was sorry not to hear the rest of whatever Amber wanted to tell him. Whether it was true or else an episode made up for the pure fun of seeing how much Amber could make him squirm; it'd been too early to tell. Foreman hadn't gotten hard. The hot flush through his body had promised it incipiently, but hearing about how Amber had met a girl wasn't enough, even with his overactive imagination, to give him the kind of mental fodder that would have him getting it up in the middle of a pancake house. Especially after two days of very little sleep and bad cafeteria food. His teenager self might've been raring to go. Foreman was a little more discreet, and, face it, twenty years older.

"Hey, I didn't say that," he answered her quietly. Amber had a bad habit of assuming. Slow down didn't mean throwing on the parking brake while they were rushing along at a hundred miles an hour. He liked the sound of that soon, though. Foreman sat up, twisting in the booth to slide one arm behind Amber, the other elbow rest on the table, leaning into her space, although with a cautious, unassuming expression. He hadn't missed the quick wetting of her lips, his eyes darting down to her mouth before he met her gaze again. "I always want to kiss you," he said, solemn and soft. And when the arguments didn't get between them, there was nothing but Amber to hold him back. Maybe now she wouldn't.