Much like Montrose had feared,it was awkward when we first saw each other. For about ten seconds.
And then he kissed me.
I was sitting at his desk typing up notes when I heard his key in the door. I always kept the door locked when I was in there alone.
I knew he’d arrived home from Switzerland yesterday—he’d texted me that he was on US soil, but hadn’t mentioned when he’d be coming back to Bribury. It was Saturday, and students were beginning to arrive, though most would be coming back tomorrow, with the new semester starting on Monday.
I guess I really hadn’t expected him to arrive until Sunday night, and that I wouldn’t see him until Monday afternoon.
I rose from my seat as the door unlocked, and moved around the desk as he opened and closed it.
A slow smile crept across his ruggedly handsome face as he saw me. “I knew you’d be here,” he said as he tossed his messenger bag onto the now box-free guest chair.
“I’m here,” I stated the obvious as he looked at me.
“Me too, now,” he said. The awkward level rose a few decibels until he laughed and stepped the five paces to get to me, put his hands—still cold from the outdoors and not wearing gloves—on my face, and brought his lips to mine.
Though he was cold from being outside, his lips were warm and the feel of them on mine nearly burned, the intensity was so strong. I had loved this man for five years, never thinking I would ever even meet him. I was in awe of his talent for so long. To now have his hands on my face, stroking my chin with his thumb as he ran his tongue along the seam of my lips…it was beyond my comprehension.
It had been the stuff of dreams, of fantasies, and yet here he was, kissing me. The feel of his camel hair coat as I placed my hands on his elbows, bent so that his hands could touch me. Real.
The scent of his cologne, barely there, but deep and musky, and not at all like the preppy Burberry Brit that Bribury guys bathed in. Real.
The taste of coffee as I opened my mouth to him and he swept his tongue in to find mine, to dance together. Real.
And yet, so…surreal.
Sliding my hands up his arms, I stepped closer to him, desperate to feel his body against mine.
“Syd,” he whispered against my lips. “God, I missed you.”
All I could do was nod a tiny bit because his mouth covered mine again. More pressure this time, more urgency. His hands fell away from my face and he pulled me into his arms. I wrapped my arms around him, my hands sliding through the hair at the back of his head—so soft and wavy, maybe even a little wet. Was it snowing outside? I burrowed my fingers deeper, and the backs of my knuckles encountered more wetness. Definitely melting snow.
It seemed like steam rose from the contact of my warm hands in his cold and wet hair, but maybe that was just how I was feeling inside. Very hot and steamy, like I was being singed by extreme weather conditions.
Being singed by Montrose.
I could feel his breath against my cheek as he angled his mouth for a better, deeper position. His hands slid down my fleece, and curved around my butt, pulling me even closer to him. His chest was strong and solid, and I loved that he was a man and not a Bribury boy who was still growing into himself.
I needed to feel that chest, know for sure how solid, howreal, he was. But there were too many layers on him. I slid my hands down the lapels of this smooth-as-silk camel-hair coat and pushed it off his shoulders, his hands quickly returning to my butt once his coat had dropped to the floor.
Being Saturday, he wasn’t wearing a sports coat, but instead had on a three-quarter zip wool sweater in black with the soft cotton of a grey T-shirt peeking out at the collar.
One of his hands glided up from my butt and underneath my fleece, pulled my cami from my jeans and crept onto the small of my back.
Yes, that was what I needed, too—to touch his bare skin. “Yes,” was what I murmured against his mouth. Yes, was what I would always tell him. He squeezed my ass and his hand at my back flattened against my skin, and he pulled me closer.
I’d be tucked into him with no room to move, except my hands were skimming his chest, then moved down to the bottom of his sweater. I raised the sweater just a tiny bit, then dipped a finger into the waistband of his jeans, right at the button, feeling both the harsh denim and the soft cotton of his tucked-in tee.
His breath hitched and he gently bit down on my lower lip, causing a groan from both of us. I slowly moved my finger back and forth, though no deeper into his jeans. “Jesus,” he said against my cheek as he kissed me there. Moving to my jaw, and down my neck, he placed kisses all along the way. Some soft, barely there, and very sweet. Others long and involved sucking, and weren’t sweet at all. I loved it all, baring my neck for him, his nose nudging the high collar of my fleece pullover out of the way.
I was just about to end the teasing (though the teasing was pretty damn good) and slide my hand lower, when a knock at the door pulled me out of it. It was a good thing, too, because Montrose kept reaching for me, even as I stepped away and returned to my side of the desk.
A look of confusion—perhaps even devastation?—crossed his face until a second knock came and he visibly shook his head.
He used to do that in class sometimes, pulling his thoughts back to us, back to reality.
I always wondered what he’d been thinking about when he did that.
