His
Page 7
He kisses me with a desperation that would steal my breath away. If I had any to spare. There's a beast I feel rumbling in his chest, straining against his skin and begging to be let loose.
I'd be more than happy to release it from its confines.
We've been kisses for ages: months, maybe years. Or perhaps, it's only been seconds. What I do know is the symphony we're composing is rudely interrupted by whistles and howling and clapping so obnoxious it makes my ears hurt, and my face scrunches up in distress.
Which is when I remember I'm in a bar. Hanging off a stranger.
He seems to come to the same realization. His body, moments ago pliable and molded against mine like we were two halves of a whole, suddenly stiffens under my touch. The hands that were supporting me fly away as if I'm on fire, and my feet drop to the floor weighted in cement.
My eyes open as if waking from a trance. It's the only excuse I have for what just happened.
Hypnotized?
Drugged?
Or perhaps I had an out of body experience.
The noise fades for a second time, as reality smacks me harder than a drummer on a snare.
I'm seeing double. I'm going to be sick.
There in front on me, lips swollen and eyes, as glazed as mine, stands Dr. Eli Summers. The head of the Strings Department for Calgary Conservatory, and the meanest professor on the campus. And beside him, like some pale shadow imitation of the God I just climbed off of, is Steve. Giving me the slow clap with eyes of wonder like I just won a Tony.
Crap on Toast. I am so screwed.
I should have just talked to Paul.
Table of Contents
Tall, Dark, and Brooding