Standing in front of the door with him, I shifted from foot to foot and wished that he'd just sweep me up in his arms. I didn't know if he was waiting for me to kiss him, though.
After a moment, Clint put his hands on my shoulders, making me feel small and delicate in comparison, and leaned down to claim my mouth in his own.
The feel of him against me was incredible.
I needed him, and now I couldn't have him. Instead of melting into his touch, I pressed my body against his, feeling the hard length of his lean frame against my legs, my belly, my breasts.
He opened his mouth to say something and I took the chance to attack, leaning up and pressing my lips against his, plundering his mouth with my tongue, kissing him with all the passion and frustration I was feeling.
He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me, if possible, even more tightly against him, pressing our mouths together and leaning down, showing me his strength and size.
I could feel his hardness throb between us, and my body responded with equal need. My nipples grew hard in my bra, the feeling of his body only a few layers of fabric away almost more than I could take.
The ache was growing between my legs to maddening levels, and I could feel myself grow wet and slick with desire for him.
Finally, I remembered that, while it was fun to be swept along by passion in an apartment hallway, it wasn't polite, or appropriate.
I pulled away from him, gasping. He let me go, but kept pulling me back, gently, to place fast soft kisses on my lips, my cheeks, my brow.
Finally, we stood again, staring into each other's eyes. I was lost in those deep pools, and the desire and tenderness that I saw there warmed and frightened me in a way I could get used to.
"Good night," I finally said.
He chuckled.
"Quite a good night kiss," he said.
He jammed his hands in his pockets and stood for a minute, looking at me.
"See you soon," he said, and turned on his heel. I watched him walk back to the end of the hallway and disappear into the stairwell.
I turned back to open my own door and blushed as red as a beet.
"Excuse me, Mr. Francesa, Mrs. Francesa," I said. "I'm sorry about, uh, that."
Mrs. Francesa cackled, and I turned to face her, the opposite way from where Clint had gone.
"What do you think we were doing fifty years ago?" she asked.
"I thought you already had children fifty years ago," I retorted. I had met some of their children,
and the oldest had to be at least fifty.
"Yes, we were leaving them with my mother so we could neck in hallways," she said. "How do you think people end up with seven children?"
I tried to think up a response, but Mr. Francesa took pity on me.
"Stop tormenting her, Cheryl," he said. "Save it for our own grandbabies."
"We have lots," she said happily. "Family trait, apparently, not being able to keep your damn hands to yourself."
Mr. Francesa laughed at that.
"Come on, my darling," he said to his wife, "Let's go inside and let her figure out that she's trying to unlock her house with her car key."
I looked down and swore to myself. As the elderly couple disappeared into their own door, I finally managed to find the right key and let myself into the apartment.
I shut the door and leaned against it, trying to cool my passion down. Even being teased by