23
The second our lips touch, everything ceases to exist.
There is only his hands, his body, his lips. How the smell of him seems to utterly overwhelm my senses. Musk and spice with a warm woodiness that sends my head into a fuzzy haze; all I can think is that I must have lost consciousness after all and fallen headfirst into a dream, a myth, a vision.
His lips graze over mine before quickly turning firmer, the softness of his lips contrasting magnificently against the hot pressure of his kiss and rough stubble that brushes against me. Something in the pit of my stomach sets alight, the intensity of it almost unbearable. I greedily thrust my hands into his hair to grab fistfuls of it, immediately noting with irritation that it’s feathery-soft.
His hands and mouth scream with expertise, his hands skimming up my shoulders toward my jaw, and I find myself biting down on a moan. He wastes no time reaching a hand behind the nape of my neck and gently brushing his thumb against my jaw, tipping my head back to gain better access to my mouth as his tongue sweeps lightly across my bottom lip.
The back of my head rests against the wall as I surrender to him with a throaty moan and his tongue meets mine. His hand clenches harder in the back of my hair in response and his other arm pulls me to him tightly, desperately. It doesn’t feel like enough. My mind is dark with desire, all reason escaping me. The heat building in my core cries out for more of him. More heat, more pressure. More Elliot.
My hands move of their own accord, drifting down down his chest hungrily. Frantically trying to drink him in. The feel of him under my fingertips proves too much to bear as I curl his shirt in my fist and pull him even closer.
His strong body presses mine more firmly against the wall, a gasp escaping me as the sensation ofhimpushes against exactly where I want it.
His hands travel down over my hips, tormenting the pulsing ache between my legs. I whimper and let his lips travel down to the base of my jaw, my breaths beginning to come out ragged and heavy.
A harsh clicking sound reverberates in my ears and the sensation of Elliot’s lips vanishes from my skin, his head whipping towards the sound.
A group of men stand behind him in the open doorway of the telephone box with their eyes wide; the one holding the door immediately raises a hand apologetically.
‘Oh, shit – sorry, mate!’ he says with a laugh, before letting the door close.
The sounds of swirling bass and heavy, breathy vocals from the surrounding music fill the empty space between us once again.
What was that?
What on earth was that??
My attention slowly drifts from the door back to Elliot, and it’s clear that the spell between us has been broken. He’s fiercelyavoiding eye contact with me, staring at the glass beside us with heavy breaths and a dark stare. I can’t stop myself from looking at his lips in disbelief with my eyes hazy and limbs heavy.
He exhales harshly and his eyes snap back to mine with a new kind of intensity.
‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have done that,’ he says hurriedly, his head shaking with regret.
Something feels like it’s been torn at my core, scattering white-hot shreds of hurt that plummet to my stomach. I blink at him, wondering if at any moment now, my eyes will start to burn with tears of embarrassment, but it takes me a second to realise that I’m not sad. I’mangry.
Frosty humiliation spreads like a wildfire inside me: scalding, insistent and all too familiar. I wish the floor of the telephone box would open and swallow me whole. I shouldn’t be so surprised. But for some reason, I didn’t think he would express his regret so quickly.
I push past him to get out, almost tripping over my own feet in my desperate attempt to get away from him; my heart thundering with embarrassment and shame.
In this moment, I hate him. I hate his smile and his endless patience and his eyelashes and the way his blue eyes glow when the sun hits them. I curse his easy laugh and how his voice turns lighter when he teases me and the fact that he grabbed Teddy’s drumstick. I hate it so much that I almost feel my vision distort with rage.
I press my fringe down to try to cover as much of my face as possible as I feel his hand graze my arm.
‘Wait, Nora,wait–’
I snatch my arm away and make for the exit, detesting everything about this tent. The dark lighting and heavy thud of the music around us feels too cloudy and intoxicating. I need air. Now.
‘Nora, they just saw you. They might follow us–’
‘Let them,’ I snap, glancing back at him with a snarl.
Finally reaching the entrance, I whip the red curtain back with fury and step out into the cool air. The distant noise of the crowds around the Jungle stages settles around me as I march away from Neptune’s Lounge with conviction.
For a second, I don’t know where the drumstick is and I don’t even care, I just need to get away. But the realisation that the drumstick is still sitting in my bag hits me, and I realise with horror that he’s not going to walk away anytime soon.
For the first time, I consider handing it over in exchange for solitude. Familiar and predictable solitude.
