Under my hand, his head moves. A nod. And so I lean, slowly and carefully, forward. My lips meet the corner of his mouth, but I quickly correct, and then we’re kissing. It’s a chaste peck, the kind of kiss I’d give my mum on the cheek. Honestly, it’s a bit anticlimactic. Sure, I can smell him better like this — he smells clean, like fabric softener and the subtlest hint of deodorant — but that’s all.
Then he opens his mouth.
I don’t know what to do with tongues. Obviously, since I’ve never kissed anyone. But when his tongue gently brushes against my lower lip, it sends a shot of fire through my core, down to my groin.
I open my mouth, too, and he tugs my hair in response. Not painfully, but it pulls me closer, and I dare to slide my tongue into his mouth.
It’s messy and uncoordinated, and the dark makes it all the more difficult because we bang our teeth more than once, and one time, he bites down too hard, enough to make me wince. But despite all that, it’s good. My favourite part is not kissing but hearing the stranger’s breathing change. The little sounds he makes, the sighs when I touch his neck to pull him closer, the way that he'll tug on my hair when I kiss a little faster, a little harder. His body goes limp like he’s melting into me, and he’s heavy, but I like the weight of him. I like his short hair, which I’ve noticed from touching the back of his neck, and the smell of him and the low sounds he makes that could only come from a man.
I’ve never been able to indulge like this before. Imagine if my friends saw me like this, with a guy draped all over me, pulling on my hair to control how hard I kiss him. The thought makes me grin.
Eventually, we pull away and the stranger is panting. I want to tease him for that until I realise I’m equally as out of breath. Suddenly, this closet feels too hot, and my heart beat is way too fast.
“Th…” the stranger sucks in a breath. “That was good.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
I shake my head. He doesn’t need to thank me. Or maybe I should thank him because I’m equally grateful. Part of me wishes I’d kissed someone earlier because now I see how much I’ve been missing out on.
But mostly, I’m glad I waited until tonight. It was worth it.
“I should go,” he says.
What? That quickly?
Is he freaking out?
“It’s not because of you or anything you did,” he says. “I just need to go.” It’s like he’s Cinderella, escaping the ball. Which would make me Prince Charming. If I were alone, I’d snort aloud.
“Okay,” I say.
He moves over to the door, and I hear the handle twist. He pauses, and I wonder if he’s going to say something, which makes me panic because suddenly, I want to convey just how grateful I am to have met him.
But then he opens the door, and while the study’s lights are still off, moonlight from the window hints at his silhouette — nothing concrete, only that he’s as tall as I suspected. He closes the door after himself, and then he’s gone.
I won’t run after him, won’t try to see what he looks like. I won’t betray him like that — I know I’d freak out if I thought he’d do the same to me.
Because that was the whole point. We didn’t know each other’s identity, which made me feel safe and brave enough to dare to kiss him.
3
Jude: The Notice
Ethan Rutherford’s party felt like a dream. If I hadn’t woken up the next morning with slightly swollen lips, I’d have seriously wondered whether I hallucinated everything that happened the night before.
Ethan’s party was the first one I’d been invited to since I transferred to Easton Grammar at the start of this year. I’d spent the entire night feeling like people were looking at me, which I know wasn’t true — no one pays attention to you as much as you think — but I’d tried to look busy still.
I hadn’t brought any alcohol, even though I’m old enough to legally buy some. If Mum found out, she would’ve interrogated me about it, starting a days-long argument I had no intention of dealing with.
So, I showed up empty-handed and tried to look like I was having fun. When I had nothing to do, I’d go to the bathroom or drink glasses of water in the kitchen. I am aware that this all sounds incredibly lame. I thought I’d be above this kind of thing.
The party made me realise that I should’ve made more of an effort to make friends at Easton Grammar because I didn’t have many people to talk to. I did try when the year began — at least, I told myself that — but I know I don’t have the most charismatic personality.
When I planned to hide in the closet, I thought I was stooping to the lowest of the low. Until I tripped over that otherguy’s legs. When I realised I wasn’t the only one, I was so relieved.
And then our conversation. I haven’t spoken to someone my own age for that long in ages. And we had so much in common. He was so nice. Not superficially nice, like some people are when they want to be liked, so they’ll dish out compliments to get some in return. No, I could tell he genuinely wanted me to feel comfortable.
