Shite this was a bad idea; how the bloody hell am I to walk out of the loo and pretend nothing happened? How am I supposed to turn left when she turns right and returns to her roommate?
Her tongue tastes like sugar, and her body feels incredible beneath my palms. Like she’s right where she’s supposed to be. And I’m supposed to let her walk out? I never felt this way with my ex-girlfriend, not even at the very beginning when we were young and carefree, in the days when Caroline was nice.
I wish I could say I don’t feel a certain sense of expectation for the way I want this thing with Eliza to end, but my common sense tells me I’m fooling myself if I expect her to return my affections after tonight.
She is too loyal for that.
She feels incredible pressed up against me, but now I’m repeating myself and it seems we’re destined to do so over and over because Eliza has rendered me stupid. I can’t seem to form a rational thought when she is near, and now she has me following her into bathrooms and confessing my feelings to her.
She has me following her to house parties on weeknights like a lovesick puppy dog.
Is that what I am? A lovesick puppy dog? It sure does seem like I’m acting like one, having lost total control of my faculties.
I don’t even know her, but I do.
This may not be totally smooth—our tongues have gotten tangled awkwardly a few times—but it feels natural and it feels right and I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to walk out of this room and go back into that party full of people.
I want to pick her up and carry her out the front door and back to my house, and I want to lay her on my bed and kiss her all over.
All over her body…
I’ve only thought about this a million times.
There is more knocking at the door, which finally has me pulling away, my lips tingling, my hands brushing the hair out of her face.
I lean into her one more time, greedy, and plant a kiss at the corner of her mouth, pressing my lips against that soft indent of her skin.
“Time to go.”
She nods silently, turning to face the mirror, fingers running through her long hair to straighten it. Index finger dabbing at her mouth, at the saliva from mine, wiping it dry.
“Oh god, it looks like we’ve been making out.”
It does.
Skin an angry red from the stubble on my face, her cheeks most certainly look aflame. Coupled with a blush, it’s a dead giveaway.
Can’t say I’m sorry for it.
I’d do it again in a heartbeat, and, might I remind her, she is the one who kissed me, if we’re being technical about it.
“Do I look okay?”
“You look gorgeous.”
Our eyes meet in the reflection and she flushes harder, casting her eyes down, embarrassed.
“How do we do this? Do I go out first and then you follow behind me after waiting a few minutes? Or what?”
“No, love, we both have to go out at the same time—there are people in line and they know we’re in here, so we might as well face the music.”
“Oh my god I can’t believe this. People are going to think we—I don’t know—joined the mile-high club or something when we were just talking in here.”
“Talking? Is that what we’re calling it these days?” I smile down at her; she’s way too cute and supremely naïve.
“Do you think anyone will notice? Lord, how do I have bedhead when all we did was kiss?”
Yes, people are going to notice, but it won’t be anyone who isn’t already in line for the toilet.
Her hand rakes through her hair in an attempt to tame the tresses that are sticking up en masse at the back of her scalp.
“Eliza, do you honestly think anyone at this party is standing around watching who goes in and out of the loo? That would be weird. And if anyone is missing you, they probably just assume you went to get another pint or something. Or that you’ve gone off to the porch.”
Her shoulders relax, slouching a little; I know my words have made her feel better. It pleases me that I am able to do that for her so she isn’t stressed out about the situation. There’s really no need to be—far worse things happen in this house than the innocent, chaste kiss we just shared.
Eliza puts her hand on the doorknob; I can see she’s steeling her spine, bracing herself for whatever fallout she dreads lies on the other side of the door.
“Go ahead and turn it,” I coach. “It won’t bite.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
But it has her turning the knob and pushing it open, several irritated faces greeting us but none of them familiar. We’ve managed to extradite ourselves safely and without notice—from Kaylee anyway. I see her nowhere in sight; my guess is she’s off in some corner flirting with one of these fraternity twat waffles. Bunch of knobs the lot of them.