Page 10 of Bi-Partisan

“Sophie and I were thinking of heading out, but I wanted to make sure you’d be alright by yourself.”

I don’t even hesitate to nod. “Yeah, you two go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t mind hanging out—”

“No, I’m good, really,” I insist. “You go with Sophie and make sure she gets home safe, okay?”

“Alright, but text me so I know you’re alive,” he says.

“You too,” I say, just as Sophie returns from the bathroom.

“Hey, what’d I miss? Where’s your boy?” she asks with a teasing smile.

I glance over my shoulder to see Jamie hugging both women, and I can’t help feeling a little hopeful. “I think he’s saying goodbye to his friends too,” I say.

“So you’ll be okay if we go?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say again. “Promise.”

Sophie nods and leans up to give me a hug. “Be safe. Make good choices. Text us so we—”

“Know I’m alive. Yes, Casey already said that,” I say with a laugh.

We finish our goodbyes, then I turn back to find Jamie by himself. He smiles and closes the distance, immediately wrapping his arms back around my neck. My hands come to rest on his hips like it’s reflex.

“Your friends are leaving too?” he asks, and I nod. “But you’re staying,” he says carefully.

“I wasn’t quite ready for my night to be over,” I say, letting the implication hang in the air.

“Neither was I.” His fingertips drift into my hair, and he presses gently, guiding me to dip my head and rest my forehead against his. There’s a brief pause, and our lips are a hair’s breadth away when he takes a deep breath, his exhale warm on my skin. Then he closes the remaining distance.

The kiss is tentative at first. Gentle and slow, which is a sharp contrast to any kiss I’ve previously shared with a relative stranger in a bar. Although nothing about my night with Jamie has been typical. Testing the boundaries, I press closer to deepen the kiss. He follows my lead, lips parting willingly. My tongue flicks out to tease his bottom lip, and he sighs into my mouth, his body practically melting into my chest. I slide my hand to the small of his back again, this time slipping just under his silk shirt, and yeah I definitely need to get him alone and under me because the moan I get in response is almost enough to send me to my knees right there. Or on top of me. Honestly, I’m not picky as long as he keeps being this responsive.

I go to pull back, but then his hand slips into my hair to anchor our mouths together. Jesus Christ. It takes all my strength to tear my lips from his, and he lets out a small gasp as soon as we part. I take a moment to ground myself, feeling a little more than breathless, then open my eyes to look at him. His eyes are still closed, and his cheeks have that adorable flush to them again. God, he’s so damned pretty. I quickly dip my head to kiss him again, unable to help myself, then pull away just enough to murmur against his lips. “Would you want to get out of here?”

The silence that meets my question almost immediately makes my stomach sink. He’s going to say no. Which is absolutely his right, and I wouldn’t be upset at all. Nauseated, maybe. Definitely embarrassed. But it’s not like I haven’t been turned down before. And while it never feels great, I never have any bad feelings toward the person. I usually try hard to make that clear, too, because there are few things that suck worse than saying no to someone only to have them either throw some sort of hissy fit or try to use guilt to garner a different outcome. So if he says no, I’ll back off without hesitation. But, God, it’s going to sting—more so than any past rejection, and I don’t even want to try to unpack that feeling.

I pull back, and slowly withdraw my hand from under his shirt, opting to rest it more innocently on the middle of his back. Then he opens his eyes and blinks a few times.

“Yes,” he blurts before taking a quick breath. “Sorry, yes.” He sounds calmer this time, then he smiles. “I’d love to get out of here. Let me close my tab.”

Chapter 5

Jamie

Song: How to Be a Heartbreaker – MARINA

I am making out with a guy—I’m in a guy’s apartment, and I have a different guy’s phone number in my pocket. Who even am I? This is not my usual MO. I don’t have one night stands—and I’m fairly certain that’s what this is. WeI barely shared any information with each other other than names, that I’m from North Carolina, and he moved a lot as a kid. There’s been no getting to know each other, talk of going out sometime, or even exchanging of phone numbers. And although I’ve never actually had a one night stand, Mina’s recounted enough of hers prior to meeting Chloe that I know all of this screams one night stand.

I am not the guy who makes out with strangers in bars, or pressed against walls in dimly lit side streets. And yet, here I am, pressed against a door in an unfamiliar apartment with a beautiful man’s lips nipping at my collarbone, my hands tangled in his hair to keep him there. It’s been like this since we first kissed on the dance floor nearly an hour ago now. While we were waiting at the bar for me to pay my tab, while we stood outside waiting for the Uber to bring us to Adrian’s apartment, even when we were on the elevator to his floor, we’ve been in some sort of contact. We can barely keep our hands off each other.

The thing is, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this in, God, years. Since college. I don’t know if it’s just because this is all brand new, so it’s more exciting somehow, or what, but something about Adrian lights me on fire. It’s like I’m drawn to him by some invisible force. I’d felt a glimpse of that when we locked eyes across the room—which sounds so cliche now that I think about it—but that was mostly nerves and bisexual panic. This is something else entirely. This is pure want. Unadulterated desire. And, okay, a little bit of nerves still because while I theoretically know what I’m doing, and I’ve practiced what I can by myself, I have no idea if I’m any good at any of it.

But kissing, that I know how to do. That skill is a one-to-one transfer from women to men. Although, I will admit that usually in the past I’ve been more physically in charge in my physical relationships with women—not that women can’t be dominant. But most women I’ve ever been with look at me and see that I’m tall and know I’m in politics and assume I want to be the one in control. And I do like that, but God, if I’m not just a little bit obsessed with the way Adrian is just taking what he wants from me.

Like right now, how he’s deftly shedding his own coat then shoving mine off my shoulders and letting them both fall to the floor in a pile, all without detaching his lips from mine. It’s freeing. I can almost turn my brain off and just be… me. And I like this feeling. Right now, I’m not a congressman from North Carolina, or a former policy writer for the governor on the campaign trail, or even a bright-eyed eighteen-year-old with his sights set on a career in politics. I’m just a normal twenty-eight year old bisexual man who goes home with beautiful strangers and apparently likes when said stranger is a little bit taller than him and pushes him against surfaces while kissing him absolutely stupid.

With less layers between us, I can feel the contours of his chest where it’s pressed against mine, and now that we’re alone, I give into the very strong desire I had in the club to get my hands in places other than clasped behind his neck. My hands find his hips, and I feel him hum against my lips, almost in encouragement. Emboldened, I dip my hands beneath his sweater and explore his waist, reveling in his smooth, warm skin.

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