Page 3 of Scorching Sienna

Before his paw can touch me, a large tattooed hand shoots out, the hooded figure grasping the man's wrist as I shrink back from the almost contact.

He pushes him away from us while simultaneously stepping towards me, shielding me from the stranger, who must have mistaken me for someone else, and the rest of the room as both his hands meet the wall behind me.

He is crowding me, my hands flattening against the wall behind me. But instead of fear, when I look up into his shadowed face, all I feel is excitement. That feeling is probably why I remain where I am. For someone who thought their soul was dead, this was certainly something worth sticking around for. Like an addict having their first hit.

My heart rate has increased, and my mouth has gone dry. Swallowing feels like a mission in mechanics and ends with a gulp.

I lick my dry lips, a grunt coming from the figure that until now has remained poised before me, every muscle in his body tense, like a sleek panther.

I’m frozen as he leans forward, his nose finding the crook of my neck and the button to my goosebumps. Automatically, like apaintbrush being primed with paint, I tilt my head to the side, inviting the darkness as he breathes deeply, the intake of his breath causing mine to catch in my throat. His smell overwhelms me. Whiskey, smoke, and forests I visited as a child.

My eyes close, rolling back as an indescribable need pulses through me. Is this what newness feels like? Is this what it feels like to be touched by someone else? I don’t remember it being this intense—this intoxicating.

Almost as soon as I feel it, my hands push the stranger away, guilt pooling in my stomach and tears rimming the edge of my eyes as the weight of my deception hits me—my betrayal to a lover who no longer lives.

The thumb that catches the tear that escapes my lid is big and rough. And surprising. The gentleness of such a big man is juxtaposed, and I suck in a breath, trying to stop the sob that wants to rip free from my body.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, wiping furiously at the tears that have escaped.

Silence.

“I must be drunk.” The lie makes me cringe and flames my cheeks as I try to justify my reaction to a stranger and break the tension.

He says nothing.

Though I can't see it, his gaze burns as it lingers on my tear-streaked face. My chest tightens under his scrutiny as I wonder if he hates what he sees.

My hand goes up, my fingers gliding over the mess that is my cheeks and under my eyes, pressing into them as if that will curb the newly formed droplets rising without my permission.

A large hand gently cups the back of my head, pulling me forward so that my head rests against his firm chest. This tendergesture, so devoid of anything beyond sweetness, overwhelms me. My chest tightens, and my breath hitches as I try to control my emotions.

No one has held me with such gentleness in so long that my control slips, and I cry, all the feelings cooped up over the last couple of months pouring out of me and pooling into a liquid patch on the stranger's shirt. One, I am gripping like my life depends on it. All the therapy sessions did not achieve what this one moment had.

Time stands still. The noise fades away, leaving only his breathing and my sobs to fill the space between us. We are wrapped in a cocoon. What will I become when this is over?

“I’m so sorry.” I hiccup, my hand smoothing over the wet patch I created on his chest.

Underneath, muscles tense and relax, my hand triggering these micro-movements as they smooth the material clinging to his skin. Bonded with my salty tears.

“I’m a mess.” I continue this one-sided conversation, my eyes glued to his chest, embarrassment keeping my gaze from going any higher.

“Don’t.” One gruffly spoken word as his finger, which must be charged with electricity for the feel it leaves in its wake, travels down my face and along my jawline, stopping under my chin. He gently forces my face upwards, his thumb tracing my lips as he does.

I still cannot see his face, the dim lighting behind him only casting his outline. He bends down, my body stiffening as his head inclines. My stomach flips like a seasoned acrobat. I close my eyes, expecting a kiss.

But surprisingly smooth lips kiss first my right eye and then the left. So light and soft that it takes my breath away. Again. The hand holding my chin disappears, and then so does the heat I didn’t know I had grown accustomed to.

The heat from his figure is replaced with cool air, and the scentthat overwhelmed me drifts away, consumed by the stench of sweat and cigarette smoke. I hated everyone in this room for taking a scent I wanted to drown in.

He is gone. I don’t open my eyes immediately. The feeling of loss I experience in his absence makes my heart clench as my hand flies up to palm the area.

“Where have you been?” Gloria scolds, her concerned voice out of place and forcing my eyes open. For a second, I felt like I was somewhere else. Like the room and everyone in it had disappeared.

“I-I went to the ladies’,” I stutter, trying to regain my composure, as I point to the door to my side. My eyes scan our surroundings, looking for him, before landing back on her perfectly made-up face.

“For so long. Geezus. I thought something had happened to you, Sienna. You can’t go running off by yourself. This neighborhood isn’t the safest.” With a huff, she hooks her arm through mine as she leads me back to the spot at the bar.

To my delight and relief, Mr. Bad Nicknames is chatting with his latest victim—a leggy brunette who loves the attention he lavishes on her.

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