Everyone around us was still dancing and the girl behind me kept accidentally knocking into me. I was about to turn around and ask her to get a hold of her flailing elbows, but then I’d have to look away from him. I wasn’t ready for that yet.
"That's not fair," I lamented.
"I don't think I mind costumes so much when you're wearing them," he smirked, letting his gaze fall to my bare stomach. I don't think I minded them either, especially since his hand had been on that bare skin only moments earlier.
"C'mon," he motioned. "I'll go put one on." He tilted his head toward the hallway and I knew we were heading back to his room. I scanned behind me, but didn't see anyone I knew. Becca and Penn were dancing off to the side of the room. His hands were on her hips and her head was tilting up to him. He bent down to say something in her ear and she smiled into his neck.
Half of me wanted to interrupt them and mention Becca's wax or cash in my "one free pantsing" that she'd promised me, but I couldn't do that to her. Best to wait until she was more sober, that way she’d remember it. Hah.
"Coming?" Liam asked, and I realized I'd stopped following him.
He was standing confidently in the hallway, cloaked in darkness. His facial hair was more grown out than usual, like he'd forgotten to shave earlier that morning. But the thing that got me the most, that I couldn't wrap my head around, was his strong hand outstretched and beckoning for me to catch up and grab hold. He was putting himself on the line.
Someone could see us sneaking away from the party, but I told myself the chances were slim. Everyone was too busy concealing their own secrets to worry about discovering ours.
Instead of grabbing his hand, I sidled past him, never breaking eye contact until I turned and walked toward the room he’d pushed us into last week. He chuckled under his breath behind me and I hid my smile as he opened the door.
Not much had changed in one week. Our relationship was still forbidden. He still had to lock the door behind him, but there was a slight sense of hope in the air... maybe because he flipped the light on and gave me a glimpse of his world, his room. It made me feel less like a secret and more like a welcome addition to his life.
It was only one room with an attached bath and closet, but it was huge and decorated well. His bed had a tall black headboard with a crisp, black trimmed bedding set. The room was entirely too clean for a normal 25 year old guy.
There were two framed photographs sitting on his desk. One was of him when he was younger, smiling and smack dab between what looked like very doting parents. I could tell they were his parents because he looked like carbon copies of each of them. The other photo was of him and his team winning silver in the last Olympics. He was smiling up at the crowd, wrapped in an American flag, and holding his silver medal proudly.
"You look so young in this photo," I smiled and stepped closer. I could feel Liam's presence behind me. What was I doing in his room looking at old photographs? Five minutes ago we'd been attacking each other in the living room surrounded by hundreds of people.
"I was young. Young and wild," he smiled and shook his head clear of thoughts before heading toward his closet. I crossed my arms and moved back against the bed. I sat on the end, in what felt like neutral territory, but I could still see him moving around among his clothing.
He grabbed a light blue shirt off a hanger, and without thinking, started tugging his black shirt over his head. He was facing away from me, so of course I watched his back muscles pull and stretch. I could see the tattoos that wrapped around his left shoulder blade. They extended down the back of his arm to his elbow in a half sleeve. I wasn't close enough to make out any of the content, but they were beautifully done. The forms were sketched perfectly and the black ink stood out against his tanned skin. I guess he went shirtless at practice most of the time.
Lucky teammates.
I didn't find the will to speak until he pulled the light blue shirt over his head and his bare skin was out of view. I mourned the loss. It was like getting a glimpse of the David. A tan, tattooed David.
"I saw your tattoos," I joked, pushing off his bed and stepping closer to the closet. He peered over his shoulder at me and smirked. Then he turned fully and I saw the emblem on the front of his shirt. Superman.