The Other Side(45)

I take her hands and press her palms to my cheeks and shake my head slowly so she can feel it.

“Why not?” she says it on a deep inhalation of air meant to calm her.

I’m staring at her mouth, expectant like it’s ready and willing to grant wishes and make dreams reality. I end the lies. “Because I don’t want anything between my mind and your lips. I want to remember it all. Clearly.” She rises up on her knees and with my cheeks still covered in her hands that are still covered in mine, leans in. A second before our lips touch, I answer the question she asked me weeks ago at Wax Trax. “You make my pulse race, Alice.”

The first brush of lips isn’t tentative; we jump right in where we left off the last time. This isn’t a kiss that’s going to smolder until it ignites. It’s an inferno from the start. Intent established on both sides, her fingers free from my hold and slide to the nape of my neck, cradling my head to angle up toward her. Before I know it, I’m up on my knees too. My hands on her waist, our bodies pressed flush. The kiss is entirely visceral, all-consuming. Our breathing is accelerated and purposeful, chests expanding and retracting in an erratic rhythm. And when my lips touch her neck, the quiet sigh she releases incites a riot inside me. When her hands find their way under my shirt, I don’t waste any time and pause the kiss to strip it over my head. The move is unconscious and instinct-driven and I immediately question myself. Is this moving too fast? I really like Alice and don’t want to scare her.

“Is this okay?” I whisper.

She places her palms on my chest and slowly drags them reverently over bone and muscle. She’s looking at me with her hands. If this wasn’t so hot, I’d be self-conscious. But I’m not. Hormones must be my superpower because I’ve never felt embarrassed when I’m physically intimate with someone. It’s like all the doubt temporarily suspends.

“It’s more than okay, Toby. Does it make you uncomfortable when I touch you like this? I’ve wondered for a long time what you look like.” Her eyes are focused on my chest like she can see what she’s touching.

“No,” is buried in a satisfied moan.

The kissing resumes, slower this time. It’s exploratory, to match what our hands are doing.

Time ticks by slowly.

Her shirt is removed by me.

Her bra is removed by her.

At some point, we lie down.

On our sides facing each other.

Legs weave together.

And while our lips worship and hands inquire and please, hips begin to slowly engage.

Which leads to a shifting of bodies.

An alignment to address the throbbing need.

Me on my back.

Alice on top, her skirt pulled up to allow her legs to part.

Chests flesh-to-flesh.

My hands guiding her hips.

Her hips guiding my hands.

The grinding blissful.

Through my jeans and her panties.

The red ones.

Kissing alternates between languid and frenetic.

Touching alternates between adoring and fanatical.

I’m so close.

And I’m lost.

Lost in her.

Lost in this.

Lost in us.

And that’s when the soundtrack starts up.

You’re nothing.

She’s everything.

You don’t deserve this.

She deserves more.

Than you.

Than this.

Don’t lead her on.

You’re nothing.

You’re nothing.

You’re nothing.

Slowly, I still my hips.

And my hands.

And my lips.

And I drag in the deep breath my lungs desperately need.

Eyes still closed, I listen to Alice inhale and exhale like she’s been underwater.

Once.

Twice.

Three times before I open my eyes.

I don’t know what I expected, but she’s smiling. It’s hazily euphoric and fearlessly shy. She rolls off me and puts her shirt back on without a word, skipping the bra, but with the smile still in place. Then she walks to her closet and pulls out a shoebox from underneath a pile of notebooks and extracts the bottle of vodka. I search for my T-shirt on the floor and tug it on, watching her the entire time. She returns to the bed and sits next to me before she unscrews the lid and hands it to me. While I’m taking a swig, she says, “I’m not sure where you learned to kiss like that, but I’d like to offer her my sincere and undying appreciation.”

I almost spit out the liquid in my mouth but manage to swallow it back.

She smiles when she hears me splutter and holds her hand out for the bottle.

“Ditto,” I say when I hand her the bottle. I mean it, that kiss was everything a kiss should be. And more.

She tips it back, takes a sip, and cringes as she swallows. “He was a bastard. Kissing was his only saving grace.”

“First boyfriend?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she replies as she props up a pillow against the headboard and leans back into it. “Ninth grade. Ryan Lopez. We went out for three months.”

“What happened?”

“I found out he’d been kissing Melinda Tompkins for three months too.” Her tone is sour, the years’ old malice fierce.

“I hope you broke up with him and not the other way around.”