‘They must be,’ I add, cleaning closer to gaze into her wide grey eyes as though the answer to my deepest desire lies there.
‘It’s just mascara. See?’
Her eyelids flutter a little before they close, lying like inky half-moons above her cheeks. She really is quite lovely. Especially when she’s not glaring at me. And maddening, and not just because her underwear is in my pocket.
‘They’re so long,’ I murmur, taking her face in my hands as though to examine them better when, in reality, I’m staring at the temptation of her pink, lush mouth.
What was it Shakespeare wrote? Lips like blushing pilgrims.
As was always my intention, I lean in to deliver the kind of soft kiss that I hope makes her forget everything else. About Haydn, about E11even, about our playacting, her presumptions of me. As our lips meet, Heather sucks in a tiny gasp at the surprise of it. I anticipate her tension and expect her to pull away, fully prepared to deepen my kiss as a way of keeping her there. But then her mouth is already yielding to mine, her lips parting not with a gasp this time, but a sigh. Her hands grip my wrists, her thumbs pressed against my thudding pulse as she leans into my kiss. Allowing me to taste and tease, she accepts the slide of my tongue into her mouth as though it belongs there.
A breathy moan and I’m done for, stifling the vibration by deepening my kiss. Suddenly, I’m burning for her, desperate to press her back against something solid, to mould my body to hers. Because I don’t want to end it here, and I don’t want to play pretend anymore.
Then from somewhere else, maybe another dimension, catcalls begin.
‘Get a room.’
‘Put the poor girl down.’
‘Jesus, I think I’m pregnant just from watching them.’
Now she stiffens, then tries to pull away, but if not for her pride and my hands on her cheeks, she’d probably be in the carpark by now.
‘You did that on purpose,’ she murmurs, her lips just a breath from mine.
‘My sin is purged,’ I find myself answering.
‘What?’
‘I’m not sorry.’ Because how can I be sorry when a kiss with its origins in deceit leaves me feeling like I’m in a state of fucking grace. ‘My only sin is kissing you for the wrong reason.’
‘You really aren’t making any sense.’
‘I know. Just go with it.’ I lower my hands, sliding one around her shoulder to bring her body into mine as we face the crowd in the bar.
‘You two kept that quiet,’ someone calls.
Another says, ‘I think I need a cigarette!’
‘It looks like our secret is out,’ I whispersotto voce,pressing my lips to her head for good measure. ‘Let’s get a drink before we go and sit with the miscreants.’
At the bar, we order a couple of vodka tonics. The glasses no sooner hit the bar than she’s downing hers, without adding tonic to the remaining ice, then reaching for mine and throwing it back.
‘Urgh, yuck.’ Her body is wracked with a shiver. ‘Dutch courage,’ she says as she adds tonic to my now empty glass. ‘You’re not allowed to judge.’
‘I didn’t say a thing.’ But I do wonder what she’s building up to. I decide not to order two more because, whatever she has in mind, I’d like her to be able to remember it.
‘I can feel the alcohol warming all the way to my toes. It’ll loosen me up, you know.’
‘How loose are we talking?’
‘Not the kind of loose you’re thinking about,’ she answers, laughing.
We make our way over to where a group of E11even staff are sitting, my hand wrapping around her hip unconsciously, a thrill coursing through me as I realise there’s so little between my hand and her skin.
The last of the sun’s rays bathes the corner they’ve commandeered where a couple of leather sofas and a number of the wing backed chairs are arranged around two of the low tables laden with empty glasses.
Greetings are exchanged, and most of the faces are familiar, though I don’t know them all by name. I’m not sure if its serendipitous or an omen that Haydn is sitting in the middle of the fray.
