“Of course, you’ll be paid for it,” he says quickly, “and if you really do have to go, then of course I’ll drive you…”
All I can manage is a nod. Because I know if I try to open my mouth, the “no” I wanted to say would be superseded by the “yes” I’m now forced to.
Goddamn the consequences; I’m staying the night.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to have a glass of wine to take the edge off things,” Clayton says as we go down the stairs. With his hand on the banister, he descends like a god of his own realm. That’s one sense I’ve gotten from him since the first second I met him — a man of control who knows what he wants.
The newfound realization sends trickles of nervousness through me. That’s all fine and dandy, but what does Clayton Matthews want with me?
“Of course you don’t have to have any,” Clayton continues into the kitchen, producing a dark wine bottle from the cupboard.
Oh shit. This just got very bad.
Seeing my expression, Clayton’s cheeks go white then blotchy.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, “that was stupid and totally inappropriate. This is… Do you want me to drive you home?”
His question prods me into hyper consciousness.
What I should do is obvious, as is the danger inherent in staying here. And yet, I can see what will happen when I make the expected response: say the expected “yes, please drive me home.”
Clayton will drop me off at my parents’ duplex. I’ll return back to my same room, curl myself sadly up under my same soft cotton covers. Maybe even George will be waiting there. She probably won’t say it, but she won’t have to. Another night in my life. Another same old boring old night sleeping by myself, wishing I was the type of person who took risks, did exciting things, was daring.
And now, here’s my chance to finally take a deliciously exciting risk, and I’m going to pass on it?
“Is that a no?” Clayton says, adopting a completely different demeanor.
It’s as if my uncertainty allowed him to discard one mask and adopt another. This one struts around me like a lion eyeing a gazelle.
Instead of responding, I grab the wine bottle by the neck and hoist it up to my mouth. I drink it deeply, ignoring the burning sensation down my throat. I’m not a drinker, but tonight, I will be.
The sips of wine lead us to the couch. There, we chat for a few minutes, our bodies edging closer heedlessly. When our sides comes to actually be touching, Clayton is the first to rise.
“We should probably get to bed.”
The words sound like more of a question than a suggestion. Nevertheless, I rise to mine.
“We should,” I agree airily, the room swimming before me. I’m officially the world’s biggest lightweight. I’ve downed all of one cup’s worth of wine and I’m pleasantly tipsy. Nevertheless, I hold his gaze, daring him.
Daring him to take me up on my words. Daring him even more to take me up on the words that my eyes are saying but my lips hadn’t yet.
Right now, a battle of wills is happening. Deep sapphire wide-set blues against my own baby blues. And the winner takes all. Only problem is, I’m not sure what either of us wants or if even we know.
This is so wrong, a voice reminds me. I turn away.
“I’m sorry,” Clayton says softly.
I turn back to him with a rebuke on my lips. For him not to be sorry, that it’s too late for sorry. But I twist straight into his lips.
The kiss blasts into me. A whole wave of sensation overtakes every nerve in my body.
All tendrils of thought die upon contact with this feeling. As his hands sweep over me and our lips mash over each other’s, there’s only this.
When he finally draws away, tugging a bit of my lower lip with him, he groans.
“Stevie…”
This time, I’m the one crashing my lips into his. I’m the one letting my hands roam where they will. Because, fuck Clayton Matthews. He’s going to have to finish what he started. Because right now, there’s no room for carefulness in our minds with what our bodies are doing.
My hands feel the impressive bulk of his chest muscles, my fingertips slowly sweeping around as if reading sign language on a wall. Meanwhile, his tongue is stabbing into my mouth with the foreplay of where we’re headed. Instead of the fear this should inspire, it only sends an excited tingle to between my legs.
Oh yes. Were we ever really going to avoid this?
As I feel his chest under his cotton t-shirt, it suddenly occurs to me that I want to taste it too. Taste the glory of the muscles rippled there. Stripping off his shirt brings me face-to-face with his six-pack. Lips out, tongue swirling, I coat them with my oral adoration. I kiss and nibble my way in crisscrosses across his torso, like an intricate sort of quilts.