But then.
His lips follow his fingers and meet my skin, softly kissing their way up the curve of my neck. Up toward my ear, one of the most sensitive spots on my body.
Neck.
Collarbone.
Boobs.
Take your pick, I will melt in his hands if his fingers graze any of those three spots, and here he is with his lips on one, a treasure hunter seeking his prize.
Gross. What am I doing using metaphors?
Get it together, Eliza—he can’t be kissing you, he can’t be kissing you…
Why? What’s the harm?
Your roommates kicked you out because of this guy—the least you can do is allow yourself to enjoy his mouth. Enjoy his hands on you.
I war with myself even as his hands caress the exposed flesh above my hoodie.
“Why won’t you look at me, Liza?”
“Because you’ll kiss me if I turn around.”
There.
I said it.
Said the words we both know to be the truth, knot forming in my throat.
“True,” he volleys back quietly.
“So. Yeah, I can’t turn around.”
Jack goes still. “I respect that.”
My shoulders rise and fall, defeated. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, Jack. It’s just…” I chance a glance behind me.
Huge mistake.
Wide eyes, thick brows furrowed into a semi-frown, mouth set into a neutral line.
He’s beautiful.
I jerk my head back toward the window, hanging it slightly while I internally debate. Feel his large hands at my waist, sort of embracing me, sort of cradling me—I’m not sure which—as his nose nuzzles my hair.
I don’t want him to stop, but I know he should.
I want to see what happens if he doesn’t.
I want…to stop overthinking everything but can’t.
My brain won’t let me.
My body on the other hand…?
Presses into him as he stands behind me, aching for him to move his hands from my hips to anywhere else. For them to wander. For him to turn me around and kiss me though I just told him not to.
“You smell good,” he says, breathing into my hair.
He smells good too, like grass and outside and lemon from the tea I made him earlier. The closer he gets, the better it is.
Jack isn’t pushy; he’s perfect. And if he wasn’t living down the hall, it would be so easy to let myself fall into all the things I’ve never felt before. He is easily becoming a good friend. Easily becoming my first adult crush, and lord…he could break my heart if I let him.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my hands are covering his on my hips, smoothing over them, feeling how strong they are as they grip me through my leggings. My backside is still pressed into him, my neck still angled so he can nuzzle it—despite my internal protests, it’s good.
This is good.
It feels like we’re dancing.
“Do you want anything to eat?” I gulp, unsure of what to do or say in the moment, feeling a bit awkward and needing to fill the silence.
“I’m not hungry for food,” he replies with a chuckle so loud it echoes in my cerebellum and travels down my spine.
Delicious.
I’m feeling slightly wanton, and outside it looks like rain, the perfect weather to be inside. Seems he narrowly escaped having to play a match in a downpour.
Unwilling to resist this attraction—at least for now—I slowly turn my body to face him, glancing up into his eyes. I am inches from his mouth, his lips parting slightly as he gazes down at me, questioning look on his face.
He’s waiting for my consent.
Patiently standing there, waiting for me to make a move.
On him.
Not the other way around.
Okay fine. You can do this, Eliza. Don’t chicken out.
One last hurrah before you pull the plug on all our physical fun.
Do it. Go up on your tippy toes and kiss him on the mouth. It’s not like you haven’t kissed him before.
Don’t rush me! I need time!
Okay, but this is moving at a glacial pace…
“You’re not hungry for food?” I repeat. “That is the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”
I’m teasing him, hoping he’ll cut to the chase and put his lips on mine.
“Wow. You want to be a smart arse now, eh?”
“Eh.”
And then he kisses me. Dips his head until our lips touch; his are soft and full and patient.
His pelvis presses into mine. Well…it would press into mine if we were the same height. Instead, it’s pressing into my stomach, his hardening erection pressing in there, too, just above my belly button as I rise onto tiptoe so my mouth can reach his.
It’s not easy being short and kissing someone this tall.
I should get a step stool.
No you should not—you will not be repeating this!
Oh my god, Eliza, stop with the internal dialogue—you’re in the middle of kissing someone for crying out loud, you freak!
I decide my favorite part of Jack’s mouth is his bottom lip; it’s poutier and fuller than it looks, and super soft, too. Like he spends all his time smothering it in ChapStick to make it pliable.