She nods but ignores my denial. “Is it ever too much? The guilt? The blame? The darkness?” There’s genuine concern in her voice.
“No.” So much for not lying to her tonight.
“Would you tell someone if it ever gets to that point?” She’s always so bold.
I’m not. “Yes,” I lie again. Effectively, apparently.
Finally satisfied with what she presumes is the truth, she sits down on the bed next to me and changes gears. “I have a bottle of vodka hidden in a shoebox in my closet. Well, half of a bottle of vodka. I took it from the open bar at my cousin’s wedding last year. Do you want some?”
“No.” It feels like a lie, but I immediately know that it isn’t, because there’s something I want even more.
“You don’t drink?” she questions curiously.
I let the truth go. “I do. But I’d rather kiss you instead.”
She licks her lips and her quick comeback stalls and turns into a slow, thought-out counter. “We can do both.”
I take her hands and press her palms to my cheeks and shake my head slowly so she can feel it.
“Why not?” she says it on a deep inhalation of air meant to calm her.
I’m staring at her mouth, expectant like it’s ready and willing to grant wishes and make dreams reality. I end the lies. “Because I don’t want anything between my mind and your lips. I want to remember it all. Clearly.” She rises up on her knees and with my cheeks still covered in her hands that are still covered in mine, leans in. A second before our lips touch, I answer the question she asked me weeks ago at Wax Trax. “Youmake my pulse race, Alice.”
The first brush of lips isn’t tentative; we jump right in where we left off the last time. This isn’t a kiss that’s going to smolder until it ignites. It’s an inferno from the start. Intent established on both sides, her fingers free from my hold and slide to the nape of my neck, cradling my head to angle up toward her. Before I know it, I’m up on my knees too. My hands on her waist, our bodies pressed flush. The kiss is entirely visceral, all-consuming. Our breathing is accelerated and purposeful, chests expanding and retracting in an erratic rhythm. And when my lips touch her neck, the quiet sigh she releases incites a riot inside me. When her hands find their way under my shirt, I don’t waste any time and pause the kiss to strip it over my head. The move is unconscious and instinct-driven and I immediately question myself.Is this moving too fast?I really like Alice and don’t want to scare her.
“Is this okay?” I whisper.
She places her palms on my chest and slowly drags them reverently over bone and muscle. She’s looking at me with her hands. If this wasn’t so hot, I’d be self-conscious. But I’m not. Hormones must be my superpower because I’ve never felt embarrassed when I’m physically intimate with someone. It’s like all the doubt temporarily suspends.
“It’s more than okay, Toby. Does it make you uncomfortable when I touch you like this? I’ve wondered for a long time what you look like.” Her eyes are focused on my chest like she can see what she’s touching.
“No,” is buried in a satisfied moan.
The kissing resumes, slower this time. It’s exploratory, to match what our hands are doing.
Time ticks by slowly.
Her shirt is removed by me.
Her bra is removed by her.
At some point, we lie down.
On our sides facing each other.
Legs weave together.
And while our lips worship and hands inquire and please, hips begin to slowly engage.
Which leads to a shifting of bodies.
An alignment to address the throbbing need.
Me on my back.
Alice on top, her skirt pulled up to allow her legs to part.
Chests flesh-to-flesh.
