4
Ifollow Jamie into his home. It’s dark inside, with only a faint silvering of moonlight on the hardwood floors; there are shadows and silhouettes—a sectional couch, an end table, a lamp, a recliner, an ottoman, a low rectangular coffee table, stacks of boxes, a vacuum. A doorway shows the kitchen in shadow—more boxes occupying most of the floor space, the sink and a window over it look onto the backyard. To the left of the living room as you walk in the front door is a staircase leading up to the second floor; at the top of the stairs is another window letting in a shaft of silver moonlight
We stand in the darkness and the silence for a moment, side by side, hand in hand. My heart pounds. Anticipation sings in my blood.
For the first time since I met him, the silence between us is awkward.
“I just moved in,” he says, by way of explaining the obvious. “Haven’t had time to do much unpacking.”
My breath comes short, and my hands tremble. I turn to face him, intending to say something, anything, just to break the ice. Something pithy and stupid about moving, perhaps. I see him in shadow: his hair is a mess, ruffled, wavy, a strand draping over his forehead. I can’t help myself—I brush the tendril aside with a fingertip. His eyes fix on mine again. The silence is no longer awkward but rippling with tension, anticipation.
“Elyse,” Jamie murmurs.
“Jamie?”
“I’m going to kiss you.”
“Thanks for the warning?” I say, smiling up at him.
His palms cup my cheeks, and he slides a few inches closer and now my breasts brush his chest, and I wonder if he can feel my heart slamming against my ribcage. I keep my eyes open, as his are, until the moment his lips touch mine. I swallow my heartbeat desperately, and my fingers lift, trembling like sparrows unsure of a branch, to rest on his shoulders. It’s just a touch of his lips at first, a questing. Testing my reaction, perhaps.
Jamie brushes my cheekbones with his thumbs, and I suck in a deep breath as his lips press harder against mine and I feel the first pulse-shattering tease of his tongue against my teeth. The kiss deepens, and I feel his hair clutched in my hands, his scalp on my fingertips as I pull him closer, angling upward, lifting on my toes to meet his kiss, to delve deeper yet.
I’m breathless and the world is spinning.
His hand drifts through my hair, hesitates on my back just between my shoulder blades, and then dances and trips down. One hand is on my cheek, the other is at the small of my back, hesitating, waiting. I press against him, and I feel his heart hammering as hard and wild as my own. I feel all of him, and I can feel how much he wants this.
The kiss breaks, just for a moment—his eyes open, and our eyes meet, and I know he’s waiting for the refusal, watching for the demurral.
Instead, I lift up on my tiptoes and kiss him. I taste him, then. His tongue finds mine, and his hand continues its descent. My breath leaves me in a rush as he cups my backside and pulls me tighter against his body.
I deepen the kiss, clutch at his shoulder and rake my hand down his spine.
The only light is moonlight, and the only sound is my pulse in my ears and the sound of our kissing.
Jamie breaks the kiss, just enough that his lips can move, and his whisper resonates in my gut: “Upstairs?”
“Please,” I breathe.
He turns, and his hand finds mine and I follow him up the darkened stairs, and we turn the corner at the top and my hand runs along the cool wood of the banister. My pounding pulse ratchets faster yet as we reach the bedroom at the end of the hall. A window lets in silver moonlight—the moon itself is full and framed in the window. There is a bed, a four-poster with a nightstand to one side, a bureau with a round mirror, a closed closet, and more boxes, some opened, and a few large black garbage bags full of clothing. The bed is neatly made, with a throw blanket folded over the foot.
Jamie lets go of my hand as we enter his bedroom, and turns to face me. “Elyse, I…” he trails off, doesn’t finish.
“You what?” I ask.
He shakes his head, his eyes leaving mine and roaming down my body, traveling slowly back up. “God, you’re beautiful.”
My knees don’t want to stay locked. My hands shake. My mouth is dry and my throat is seized, and my stomach is fluttering. His words land like bombs, and their detonation shakes me free of my nervous paralyzation.
I step closer to him, run my hands over his chest, and then untuck his shirt from his pants. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I feel the alcohol in my system—I know I’m still tipsy, and I know I’m allowing it to circumvent my inhibitions. Sober, I don’t know if I would do this. But I also know I’m sober enough that I’m making this decision with full awareness. And I know he’s in a similar place—an unsteady step here or there, the scent on his breath, the expression in his eyes; but his hands are steady, and his words are clear.
A tense, thick silence.
And then his lips slant across mine and I’m dizzied by the sudden passion of his kiss. This isn’t a tender questing, or a hesitating exploration—this is raw need unleashed. I match it with my own, groaning as his tongue tangles with mine and his hands caress my back, and then cup my bottom and I arch my back and press into his touch in a silent but loudyes, please, more. I seek his skin under his shirt and he’s gathering the hem of my dress in his fingers, and my eyes are closed; I feel the spin of the world around me, but his body steadies me even as his kiss dizzies me further. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the wild passion making me unsteady on my feet.
I pull his shirt off of him, and fumble at his belt while he tugs the stretchy fabric of my dress up over my hips and then his hands clutch and caress at my bare thighs and buttocks, and then his belt is undone and his pants are sagging. The wild kiss becomes desperate, lips missing lips and stuttering here and there—I tilt my head back to offer my throat to him, and he kisses it; he’s fumbling at the zipper of my dress and I’m blindly seeking his skin, trying to remove his pants and underwear without opening my eyes, without losing the press of his lips on my flesh or the scouring thrill of his lips on mine.
