Page 29 of Blindsided By You

“What was that talent quest thing you and Rachel won?” I cringe that he’s bringing that up. Some things are best left in the past. This is one of them, but Geordie sees my uncomfortable look and decides he’s going there. “Cluanie Pop Idol, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I groan. Warm humiliation creeps up my cheeks, and I wish this soft leather cushion could simply swallow me up. “Yes, all right I admit it, I had shocking taste in music, but in mydefence, I was only thirteen.” Back when I preferred bubblegum pop to the pounding rock or club music I listen to now. “I’m surprised you remember it.”

“Well, I did have to endure listening to you practise through my bedroom wall for weeks on end. At least you both could sing. And I probably thought S Club 7 was cool back then, too.”

As we revisit our younger days, I’m mesmerised by the deep voice and rumbling laugh that have replaced the soprano tones and childish giggle of those times.

It’s part first date, the tingling excitement of our first true alone time, with no one watching, no one listening, and no concern about what an observer might make of this. Yet it also has the feel of an established couple on a date night, escaping the everyday world to reminisce.

I’ve never had this ease with any man. So much that doesn’t need to be said. It’s beguiling. There’s a sense we’ve started way ahead of the game here. That, plus the pleasant glow of two whiskies on top of the gin, makes me brave enough to decide: I’m going to play the advantage and see where this leads.

“I think I’ll call it a night.”

I down the last smoky golden drops, though I could sit here all night, immersed in Geordie. We’re the only ones left in the room apart from the bartender, who keeps glancing across to check if we’re done. I have a sense we’re done talking—with words, anyway.

His eyes meet mine and confirm it. I’ve tried to pretend I didn’t see it, but it’s been there all day. Maybe longer. But it’s only today I’ve allowed myself to even think it. Geordie’s attraction to me and mine for him drowns out all the voices that say we shouldn’t do this. He searches my face, and the answer he seeks, my rampant desire, hasto be written there. His eyes drop to my mouth, and his head leans towards me.

“I’ll see you to your room, then.” He rasps out the words, his voice thick and husky. He swallows and my eyes trace the bob of his Adam’s apple, wanting to trail my fingers down his throat, into the curl of blonde chest hairs. I swallow hard as my brain offers up a clear picture of what I know lies beyond.

I’ve spent enough time in change rooms with bare-chested young men. I’m very aware of the curve of pectoral muscles, the bronze of nipples and the ripple of toned abdominals I’ll find when I lift Geordie’s navy Scotland rugby jersey. And it takes little effort to imagine the result of wrestling open that bulky western buckle and tugging the dark jeans away from his slim hips.

“Might be undesirables hanging around a hotel on a Saturday night,” he adds.

There’s also someone very desirable, if the heat blooming low down in my centre is anything to go by. Or the wetness between my legs.

When we get to the door of my room, Geordie shadowing me, I hover the swipe card, my hand trembling. I turn to face him and there’s wanting written on his face, but also hesitancy. I know my body is attractive to men, and Geordie’s a man who, although he’s been discreet, has allowed his eyes to sweep across it many times tonight, just as he’s doing now.

Is the slight waver his gentlemanly way? Or fears of what my father might do to him, or what Rachel might say? Or is it that like others before him, he’s weighing if getting his hands on the outer packaging is worth accepting what lies inside?

But Geordie is like a bright flame, drawing my hand towards its warmth with me beyond caring if I’m about to get burned. I do it anyway.

“Come in,” I say softly, pushing the door wide.

Chapter 15

GEORDIE

Theytalkaboutchemistrybetween people, but I think of it in terms of physics. It started with a tiny spark, charged glances between two almost strangers at the rugby field. Since then, with every look, every word, every brief careless touch, we’ve chipped away at the barriers of time, space, and history dividing us. Electricity follows the path of least resistance. What was a trickle of current between Jenna and me has built into bold, jagged forks of lightning arcing between us—thrilling yet dangerous, and about to light up the room.

Jenna closes the door and turns, but I’m there. I rest one arm against the frame, trapping her. Her eyes meet mine, liquid brown like melting chocolate. She should have a high voltage warning slapped across her, but I’d ignore it, anyway.

“I’m going to kiss you, Jenna. Is that OK?” My words are hushed, careful, as if I’ve unexpectedly cornered some exquisite wild creature, and with one too-loud word, one too-sudden move, it will escape.

She nods, a swallow rippling down that pale throat, her eyes fixated on my mouth. Mine twitches in anticipation, my lips pleading to unleash the restraint I’ve shown. I lick them, my tongue sweeping across, encouraging thoughts of the sweet places it seeks. God, I can’t wait to taste her.

Much as I’m desperate for a hit of Jenna, like a new drug holding promise of some mind-blowing high unlike any I’ve experienced before, I’m not going to rush this. A need to savour the moment overpowers my aching physical desire, an urge to etch it into my brain, as if knowing the memory will be important not only today, but maybe for the rest of my life.

I memorise the upturned face, a faint sunrise flush colouring her cheeks. The bowed lips, slightly parted, offer a glimpse of her pink tongue resting between them, asking to dance with mine.

The little creases that usually twinkle at the corners of her eyes, and the playful dimples bracketing her mouth, are absent. In between nervous blinks, serious brown eyes rove my face, as if she too, paused in one long breath, is recording every detail of this moment, in the colours of light and shadow surrounding us.

I cup her chin in my hand, the skin there so smooth and delicate. Following the silky curve, my fingers find their way behind her head, the sleek ribbons of her hair soft beneath them as I coax her forward, until warm lips meet mine. My other hand, resting on her waist, encourages her body to follow. It needs little encouragement as Jenna collapses into me; compliant, needy even.

Our mouths comply too, driven to explore. She tastes of smoke, as if the whisky hints of the fire igniting between us. A soft sound escapes her throat, a mewl, and I respond with a moan as she leans into me. I imagined this first kiss to be tender; hesitant, as we tookone last look at the line between us, smudging at the edges cautiously, before completely erasing it.

It’s a line not only of others’ making—her father, my sister, those who would judge the age gap between us—but also one of our own. I sense Jenna found safety in that boundary, protection against possible hurt. God knows she’s entitled to be wary after the damage done to her by her shitty ex. Maybe I felt safe on the other side too, without all my shortcomings under scrutiny; a barrier against my fear of rejection.

Now we knowingly step across the line and, free of its confines, everything changes. I tilt her head back, wanting to plunge deeper, wanting more. Our kisses become hard and desperate, and possessive; lips and teeth and tongues clashing, breaths coming in frantic gasps. There’s no finesse—only raw, desperate need.

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