He told me to kiss him.
He’s made it clear he’s interested.
He held my hand.
He told me he liked me.
I turn the handle, and the door slides inward.
It’s dark, the moon shining in through a pair of wide, mullioned windows.
His eyes are open wide in the silver light, aimed dead on me—a gun, too held in his hand, also aimed dead on me.
“Ottilie.” He flips the safety with a snick, sets it back on his nightstand.
I pad across the floor until I’m standing over him, my toes curling into the soft carpet.
Very slowly, tentatively, as if afraid I’ll spook, he lifts the blanket silently.
I climb under the blankets against the warmth of his body. The covers rustle as our bodies find their way into one another.
His arm wraps around me, hauling me close, so his chest settles against my back, his chest rising as he breathes me in with a sound that mirrors the relief I feel to be touching him again.
His lips touch the top of my head.
“Was that a kiss?” I ask, voice breathy and faint.
His lips.
I want to feel them.
So so badly.
He rumbles out a sleepy negative. “First kiss is on you.”
My stomach twists. “It felt like a kiss.”
“If that’s what a kiss feels like to you, we have some serious work to do.”
His bigger body is curled behind me, his arm around me tight. Right where his groin presses against my bottom, I can feel him, thick and hard, and it has rational thought fleeing my mind, and a stuporousness, a desperate need taking its place, a full body flush.
Hot, desperately hot.
I wriggle, and it makes it worse. So much worse, that thick, hard weight of him shifts, ends up resting, hot and heavy, throbbing tangibly, against my bottom.
I’m excruciatingly aware of it.
Desperately aware.
Fixated on it.
His chest rises and falls behind me, air wafting in the cold air to feather across my ear, my neck, my back.
He pulls his hips away, the hot length of him leaving my bottom, taking the tantalizing promise it offers away from me.
The air and the covers and our breathing settles.
It goes cool around us, dark.