by Sara H Ney
He leans in. “I’m sorry, what was that?” He points to his ear. Crap. He can’t hear me over the music.
I suck in my breath and move close enough to get a good whiff of him; sweat and cologne, my favorite combination. “I said ‘Digging the eyeliner in a big way.”
“Oh yeah? That’s good to know.”
“Do you plan on wearing it from now on?”
He pretends to think about it, tapping his chin in thought, and breathes into my ear, “Maybe on special occasions.”
“I can’t think of any ‘special occasions’ where eyeliner would be appropriate. Unless of course, you’re going to change your everyday look.”
I can feel his low chuckle in the pit of my stomach as he replies, “Maybe just to throw off little Mitchell Decker. That kid would piss his pants if I showed up to practice looking like Jack Sparrow.”
I nod and my nose accidentally brushes his cheek. “The Johnny Depp look is hot... but, on the other hand, it would just reinforce their theories that you’re, you know...”
“Chasing the GLAAD rainbow?” He looks over my shoulder, and gives a brief nod to someone behind me. “Kevin and Jenna sure seem to be hitting it off.”
“Yeah, I figured they would. He’s totally her type. Quirky and fun.”
“Quirky. I guess that’s one way to describe Kevin...”
We stand there awkwardly, him twirling his beer bottle, me fiddling with my glass - you could cut the sexual tension with a dull knife. It’s the best kind of tension in the history of mankind.
And I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m actually relieved to see Molly and Weston weaving their way back towards us, new drinks in hand. Surprisingly, they are both carrying two drinks, and when they reach us Molly hands me a large frosted glass full of ice and....
“Here. I got us both water with lemon.”
How thoughtful, since I need to keep my wits about me.
Weston hands a beer to Matthew, then looks in between us. “So. How are you two kids getting along?”
Molly rolls her eyes. “Clearly my brother has no game since they’re just standing here staring at each other.”
Oh. My. God.
Weston laughs. “You got that right. Babe, wanna show them how it’s done?” He grabs her by the waist and swings her around, grinding his hips against hers to the beat of the music and planting his lips on her neck. It’s so painfully awkward standing here watching them grind against each other.
Worse, they’ve started sucking face to How Far Do You Want to Go, by Gloriana (which happens to be one of my favorites) and apparently theirs too, because it looks as if they want to go pretty damn far.
On the dance floor.
In front of everyone.
It’s pretty hot - and revolting - all at the same time. I can actually see their tongues from here as they make out.
They’re totally doing it on purpose to torture us.
What’s worse...? It’s actually working.
Red faced (I quickly thank God for all the make up on my face) I glance at Matthew. His lips are pressed together in a line so tight I can’t tell if he’s outraged by their behavior, or turned on by it. Counting to three in my head, I take a chug of water like it’s a shot of liquid courage, then set the glass down on a nearby bar table. Before I lose the resolve, I position myself close enough to Matthew that the heat radiating from his large body warms my insides.
Slowly Matthew dips his head to the side, his entire body acknowledging my presence as he lowers his face a fraction so we’re eye-to-eye. Our noses almost touching. I’m not sure how long we stand there - it could have been seconds, it could have been minutes - but all we do is stare at each other, our hot breath mingling and our chests beginning to heave up and down like we’re trying to bring our heart rates down after a race.
Matthew’s clear green eyes are starkly contrasted by the dark charcoal black eyeliner rimming his lids - he gazes, unflinching, bores into me - so intently that I lick my lips and nervously bring a hand up to brush a stray hair behind my ear.
He is so close that if I stuck out my tongue it would end up in his mouth.
He’s not holding me. Or touching me. But I can feel my legs trembling just the same.
Matthew tips his head so his cheek brushes mine, and, without saying a word, he gently nuzzles my hair, and I can feel him inhaling my scented shampoo as he pushes my locks aside with his nose.
Slowly... excruciatingly slowly... he parts his lips and brushes them along the side of my neck, inhaling and exhaling in short, uneven breaths.
The barely perceptible touch of his lips against my neck feels like a hundred thousand butterfly kisses, and, no longer having control over my own body functions, I tip my head to the side to give him better access.
And, because it feels incredible.
My eyes flutter shut.
My body shivers.
Moaning from the easy exploration of his mouth, pleasure zips through my body like an electric shock and I swear if I didn’t know any better, you’d think I was having an orgasm right there in the middle of the dance floor.
I feel greedy and selfish.
My body wants more.
I want more.
I am limp, putty in his capable hands.
With his lips still on my neck, he exhales, his warm breath coming out in a long, drawn out groan that melts my insides like butter.
Our bodies, of their own accord, move closer still, pressed together but still too far apart. I curse the damn adornments glued to the bodice of this corset because I can’t feel him against me, and cringe inwardly knowing he’s probably being stabbed in the pecs by pointy beads and stabby daggers disguised as sea shells.
Epic fail: they looked so cute when I was gluing them on...
Matthew, bless his heart, doesn’t seem to notice or care. Hands reaching up, his strong capable fingers weave gently through my long hair in a caress, resting at the base of my neck. I let out a sigh because he’s finally touching me, kissing his way down my neck, nipping my shoulder with this teeth.
I feel his wet tongue on my skin.
On my collarbone.
In my cleavage.
Matthews’s strong hands grasp me around the waist, sliding them down to grab my ass cheeks, fingertips flexing over my backside, the tendons in his forearms tense as he battles his willpower, every stroke becoming unbearable for us both.
Roughly, he hauls me against his straining erection and grinds himself into the crotch of my thin hot pants - even as he licks and dips his tongue into the valley between my breasts. I tip my head back like a wonton trollop, so close... so so close to climaxing that my fingers dig into his scalp and I moan loudly into his ear.
“Oh god, Matthew. Mmmm. Ugh...”
I’m sure to the casual observer, I look like a little hussy.
Because, well - I’m acting like one.
Roger would be so ashamed.
The only slow song of the night begins. Couples morph into one around us, forming pairs to dance - some vulgarly grinding sexually, others engaging in drunken make out sessions, the rest just acting stupid.
The guy’s self-control is award winning. I mean... it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to rip his shirt open and lick him from top to bottom.
“Cece.” Coming up for breath, Matthew’s low gravelly voice shudders. “Cece, we have to stop or I’m gonna come in my pants like a twelve year old.”
Sounds like an okay plan to me, I want to say, but nod instead. He holds me still, pulling me in so our foreheads and noses are touching, and we sway to the music. My hands begin lightly caressing his muscular back and I turn to rest my head on his broad shoulder.
I swallow. “Do you have your eyes closed too?” I ask just above a whisper, hoping he can hear me and hoping I don’t sound lame.
His nod barely perceptible.
Yes.
Matthew and I continue to sway, just barely moving, at the edge of the makeshift hardwoo
d dance floor. I sigh. Our lips had come so close to touching it was almost painful. The fact that Matthew can’t technically kiss me until he says the code word gets me even hotter.
It’s like... the best foreplay ever.
I want him to kiss me - but then again, I don’t.
My hands continue to roam, lightly sliding low on his lean hips to the curve of his backside. I let my featherweight fingertips travel briefly over his firm ass before letting them settle around his trim waist.
It is, hands down, the most romantic and erotic moment of my young life, and for a fleeting moment, I find thinking “this must be what falling in love feels like...”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cecelia
“In alcohol’s defense, I’m done some pretty stupid shit while completely sober, too.” - kushandwizdom
“Holy shit balls Cecelia. Seriously? You and Matthew looked so hot on the dance floor that Weston and I went and had sex in the woods behind the party tent.”
It’s two o’clock in the morning and we’re sitting on my bed, make-up and costumes off, both of us showered, Weston passed out in her room. I can hear him snoring loudly.
“Okay, first of all - since when do you say things like holy shit balls? And second - how can you talk about getting turned on by watching us like it’s no big deal? We aren’t some random people, you sicko - that’s your brother. Don’t you think it’s kind of weird? And perverted.”
Molly flops down on my bed and gazes at me oddly, her freshly scrubbed face appears far more innocent than it actually is. She blinks at me before responding. “Because Cece, it’s you. You’re my friend and I’m happy for you.” She gives me another strange look like I’m the crazy one here.
Oh.
Well then.
“And I’m sorry, but I’ve literally never seen anything hotter than the two of you in my entire flippin life. It was like... soft core porn up close and personal.”
Soft core porn?! Oh my god, seriously?
I gape at her with my mouth hanging open.
“Anyways, I better get to sleep. I have to work in the morning.” She leans over and pulls me in for a hug, planting a kiss on the top of my head with a loud smacking sound. “Good night, Kiddo. Don’t stay up too long.”
“Good night, Mom.” I laugh.
Little does she know, sleep won’t be happening for me anytime soon because the minute I hear her door softly close, my phone chimes.
I suppress the urge to roll around on my comforter like a giddy school girl and squeal.
Matthew: Did I tell you how great you looked tonight?
Me: Actually, no you did not....
Matthew: I meant to. You looked incredible... edible... edible
Do you hear an echo?
Me: Stop it or you’ll make me blush.
Matthew: I’d also like to point out - you smelled delicious. Good enuff to eat...
Me: OMG no I didn’t. I smelled like sweat. Wait -you were smelling me?
Matthew: Um yeah. Totally smelling you. Unlike *some* people I can admit when I’m sniffing someone.
Matthew: And this might be the beer talking, but when I first saw you tonight...
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but instead lets it trail off. I inhale, staring intently at the phone, willing him with mental telepathy to send the rest of the sentence through. A few moments go by, damn him, before my phone chimes again.
Matthew: Sorry, I’m still driving. Now I’m at a red light.
Matthew: I don’t think I had the chance to tell you goodbye :(
Me: No. You kinda had your hands full with the four lady molesters.
Matthew: omg I had to haul every one of their asses home. Felt like I was back in college, getting my drunk friends back to the dorms.
Me: I’m surprised you weren’t drinking
Matthew: I had a few
Me: You couldn’t have had more than 2 or 3 beers...?
Matthew: Kind of at the point in my life where I want to remember what happens on the weekends. KWIM?
I smile at his reply, typing out: My sentiments exactly. Weston is passed out in Molly’s room snoring like a lumberjack. Or something like that. LOL
Another few minutes go by before he replies.
Matthew: So... are you wide awake, or just about to fall asleep?
Me: Something in between, actually...
Randomly, I think I hear knocking in the other room like someone is at the door, softly tapping at the cheap wooden door. I cock my head to the side, intently listening.
I think my mind must be playing tricks on me, but then I hear the tapping again.
Tap. Tap, tap, tap.
Me: omg Matthew. I think someone is at my door. SHIT! What should I do??????????
Matthew: DO NOT ANSWER IT. DO. NOT. ANSWER. IT
Me: I’m kind of freaking out here!!!!!!!!
Matthew: Do you have a baseball bat?
Me: No, but I think Molly has a hockey stick in the living room.
Me: Wait. Shouldn’t I just go wake Molly and Weston up???
Matthew: NO! That turd is useless when he’s drunk.
I bite down on my lower lip and hear more tapping at the front door. Shit! Why the hell don’t we have a peep hole?
Tap, tap, tap.
I stand, tip toe into the living room and cautiously grab the purple hockey stick leaning against the back wall, yet careful not to scratch the paint on it.
Which is dumb, because hello! Clearly there is a murderer outside my door.
Clutching the hockey stick in one hand, and my cell phone in the other, I debate my course of action. Several possible scenarios wait for me on the other side of the door, including:
1. Opening the door to be immediately axed to pieces by a raper-slash-murderer.
2. Opening the door to a neighbor in need of assistance.
3. It’s Creepy Writer Guy, and he’s here for my underwear.
4. It’s Creepy Writer Guy, and he’s here to rape-slash-murder-slash-axe me into pieces.
I run out of possibilities after number four. I mean... just how many people could it possibly be on the other side of this cheap plywood door?
My phone chimes, and it’s Matthew: DO NOT OPEN YOUR DOOR.
Shit, Shit, Shit.
Not only is there a creeper outside my damn door, I am wearing pajamas and look about as opposite of bad ass as a person could conceivably appear in this situation. And not just any pajamas: skimpy pajamas. I mean, if you classify a cotton camisole and drawstring shorts skimpy....
Plus, when faced with certain death, I can’t think of a single soul who would want to be slaughtered wearing PJ’s.
How humiliating.
Tap, tap, tap.
I am so bloody freaked out. I glance towards Molly’s door: surely she’s still awake? Finally, still white knuckling the hockey stick, I thumb through my contacts and tap on Matthew’s information, hit the ‘Call’ button, and hold my breath.
Resting my head against the wall next to my front door while I wait for the phone call to connect, I hold it up to my ear.
It finally starts to ring.
Hey.
Wait a minute.
My head pops up from the wall and I turn my head, pressing my ear firmly against the door. Yup... I definitely hear a ring tone coming from out in the hallway.
The theme song for Star Wars.
That jerk!
Suddenly enraged, I throw down the hockey still and yank open the door.
**Matthew**
“You... you asshole!”
The door to Cecelia and Molly’s apartment flies open, and Cecelia stands in the doorway, chest heaving and bright red with fury. Her long brunette hair flows down her back, still damp from a shower and her eyes are wild with rage.
Yeah, I am an asshole - an insensitive prick - and prove it by laughing as Cecelia grabs me by the shirt collar, aggressively shoving me with all her might, both palms flat against my chest. I grab her by both wrists as she uns
uccessfully attempts to propel me into the wall.
She’s breathing hard, face bright red and.... so is her half exposed chest. I force my eyes up, and bite my lip to stop another burst of laughter.
She looks so unbelievably infuriated.
“You are such a dickwad,” she spits out.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to see you.” Loosening the grip on her wrists, she seems to get control of her erratic breathing, and looks up at me. I’m still dressed like a pirate, having chased all over town driving my friend’s home and haven’t been home yet.
“Did you think scaring the living shit out of me at two in the morning would be funny?”
“Um...” How do I answer that? I can’t say yes. She’s obviously super pissed.
Cecelia continues ranting and tries shoving me again. “What an idiotic thing to do, you big jerk off. Why would you do something like this?”
Newsflash: I am a guy.
We think everything inappropriate is funny; farting, burping, lighting shit on fire - and yeah, scaring the living shit out of girls we like at two o’clock in the morning.
Do you want to know how I know men are idiots? Because one time I had an ex-girlfriend who posted a sign on my refrigerator after one of our many knock-down-drag-out fights (note: she was clingy and wanted a commitment) that said: ‘Men are stupid. If you forget, give them a second. They will remind you.’
So yeah - if you need further proof, I have it in writing on my fridge.
At the moment, it appears Bridget (the ex) might have been right.
Go figure.
“Don’t be mad. I didn’t think you’d be that freaked out,” I grin, the lie slipping out easily. With make-up on, Cecelia is beautiful. Without it (damp hair and all) she’s absolutely a-freaking-dorable.
And do-able. (Haha - see what I did there?)
I pull her in a little closer.
“Why are you here? I’m beginning to think you might have a few screws lose.”
“My car drove itself here. It’s like that car from Knight Rider.”
“What the hell is Knight Rider?”
“It’s a TV show from the 90’s. Michael Knight’s car Kitt was bad ass and drove itself.” Cecelia is regarding me like I’ve lost my mother effing mind. “On second thought, you know what? Never mind...”