“Almost poetic?” he balks. “Jesus. That was as fucking poetic as you can get. I get no damn credit these days.”
I laugh. “I think you’ve found your stride,” I say, turning out of his arms and walking down the balcony.
He follows behind me. “It probably sounds dramatic to you,” he says, with a shrug. “But to me, it’s accurate.”
“You certainly are a charmer.”
“That’s just it. I’m not trying to charm you,” he says in all apparent sincerity. “I’m just telling the truth.”
I turn around abruptly and he almost walks into me.
I put one hand on his chest and he looks down at it resting there.
“In any case, the ship’s already sailed with that one,” I tell him softly. “Consider me charmed.”
“Yeah?” he asks with that boyish smile of his.
“Yeah.”
“So then I’m not the only one feeling this,” he says, placing his hand over mine.
I can feel his heartbeat come in loud and strong.
“No,” I reply, even though I’m not quite sure what ‘this’ is. “You’re not.”
As we look at each other, the smiles fade from our faces as the realization of what we’ve just admitted surfaces.
Maybe we’re both in vulnerable places in our lives.
Maybe this feeling is purely imagined.
Maybe we’re wrong.
But how often are two people wrong together in this way?
When Cillian kisses me the second time, it’s different.
It feels different.
It feels more.
As if the admission of our feelings for one another has heightened everything. My body feels like it’s on fire when he touches me.
My lips are greedy.
My body is hungry.
And this time, I’m not satisfied with just a kiss.
I’m the one who reaches for his hoodie. I’m the one who pulls it off him and throws it on the floor. My hands slip under the white t-shirt he’s wearing underneath.
I actually sigh as my hands run over the hard wall of muscle.
Then I pull his t-shirt up and over his head.
When I reach for the buckle of his jeans, he stills for a moment. He pulls away, breaking our feverish kisses. He’s still smiling, but his eyes are serious.
“Saoirse…”