While I sit here—frozen in place by confusion, indecision, no experiences to draw on, not a fucking thing in my brain to reference as to what this could mean, no wake up call to help me do the right thing in this scenario—that foot continues to travel up, up, up.
My breaths get deeper, my body trembling from the forbidden sensations being created within me by the illicit feel ofone man’s touch on my right leg, while my boyfriend continues to stroke my left, completely unaware.
Not just any man moving up my leg.
The man I’ve wanted more than I’ve wanted air since I can remember.
The one I’ve dreamt about touching me thousands upon thousands of times.
The one I only just recently stopped actively thinking about in a sexual way.
He’s the one doingverysexual things in a very unexpected way. In front of our dates.
He’s the one who has the worst possible timing on earth.
What the fuck is he doing?
I pull my hand back from Spencer’s arm, pushing my hair back behind my ear, no earthly idea what else to do with my hands right now. I wish I could say I hated the feelings Aaron is creating in me right now, but every ounce of me is homed in on the source of that wild skittering flooding through my veins right now, because I think this might be the most exhilarating feeling I’ve ever had.
My pulse races, my heartbeat pounds in a place I’ve rarely felt it before, and my breathing falters. It’s all I can do to keep breaths coming into my lungs, keep my eyes on my boyfriend, and keep my face neutral while every single cell within my body lights up with a ferocity I’ve never felt before at the touch only two people at this table are aware of. And neither of them are our partners.
When Aaron passes my knee and hits the bare skin of my thigh, reality comes crashing back into me, with a healthy side of panic.
I’m here with myboyfriend.
He’s here with hisgirlfriend.
And he’s feeling me up under the table? Playing footsie like we’re in middle school and that’s the only touch we can sneak?
What. The. Fuck. Is he playing at?
My eyes dart to his for just an instant, wide as I’ve ever felt them, and nothing prepares me for the ravenous intention I see in his steely blue gaze. The satisfaction there when our eyes connect, the resulting smirk.
My body jolts upright and I smack Spencer’s arm repeatedly, fast, in my urgent need to get out of this booth. I have no further thoughts in my head than escaping, getting far away from the men at this table and the confusing thoughts they both create within me.
One who has been nothing but lovely, a would-be-perfect partner.
If only he were the other one at the table.
The one who hasclearlybeen going through something lately, acting so fucking out of character, but it’sstillnot been enough to destroy the years and years of love I hold in my heart for him. The hope I’ve fostered for so long, this feeble flame, barely still flickering, the stormy breeze of his recent behavior has all but put it out, but I’ve protected it, sheltered it, fed it. For what?
And now he’s taking a torch to three relationships. His. Mine. Ours. For fucking what?
I need to get out.
Spencer looks at me questioningly at my abrupt movements. “I need to get up for a second. Excuse me.” My voice sounds tight, panicked, but I just need out. It’s the only thought I can form.
He gives me an easy smile, concern shining from his eyes, but he slides out of the booth and holds out his hand to help me get up. I launch myself out of the booth, not answering his questioning gaze, or accepting his proffered hand, andpractically run to the side of the large room, where a small sign tells me the restrooms are.
I hear a slight commotion at the table behind me, but don’t stop to see what’s happening. I justmove.
Lucky for me, there’s a dim hallway around the corner back here, a secluded place away from prying eyes, and I rush toward it, practically stumbling into the wall before I turn around, pressing my back to it, my hands on either side of me for balance. Is this a panic attack? Is this what he felt every time he saw his name in the tabloids? It feels like dying a bit.
My head falls back to rest against the wall, and I take deep breaths, staring at the ceiling, trying to form a single coherent thought.
I feel a presence before I hear it, and I refuse to look just yet. If it’s anyone from our table, I don’t have a single clue what I would say to them.
If it’s a stranger, let them just think I’m having a meltdown and move on, like a good spectator, watching someone else’s entire life coming crashing down on them just for entertainment. Get the popcorn ready, buddy.
