Written with Love

Beginning

I catch his eyes from across the room, and my bones are liquid. There's an intensity in his gaze, a sudden urgency that sends a jolt of something down my spine. The crushing heat of bodies around me, the sticky, suffocating air and overwhelming music, fade until it's only me, and him, and his liquid eyes. I can't see their color from here, but the dim light casts a series of fascinating shadows across his face, and I can't help but suddenly understand why everyone always compares hot people to marble statues. 

Strong jaw, full lips, the quiet intensity of something that had been slowly, intentionally, chiseled to perfection. Something flips in my stomach as he lifts a red-plastic cup to his lips, and takes a sip, all without breaking our eye contact.

I run my fingers along the hem of my crushed velvet dress, thankful, for once, that Sasha made me borrow it. When she'd held it up earlier, a sly look on her face, I'd unequivocally refused to even try it on, eyeing the short hemline and blood-red color with trepidation. Now here I am, squaring my shoulders, shivering as the man across the room drops his eyes to where my hand rests, to the slight triangle of skin at my thigh. 

I knew I'd have to say it later. As soon as I saw my roommate, I'd have to tell her she'd been right about the dress, and then put up with her being insufferable about it for weeks. But those thoughts, and the image of my roommate's gloating face, recede to a far corner of my mind as the man pushes to standing, leaning to say something to his friend, and then begins to cut toward me through the thick crowd.

I track his movement with the corner of my eye as I, too, take a sip of my drink, going through the motion of downing it in one gulp, though more for whatever adrenaline rush is attached to the action than any possible buzz. It's water anyway. I turn back as he reaches me, suddenly very aware of my hair brushing the bareness of my shoulders. And that when he speaks, and I turn to look at him, his eyes are, in fact, a dark, startling blue.

"Can I ask you a question?" His voice is low, and I lean close to hear it over the thrum of the music.

"Shoot." I go to take another sip of my drink, and, obviously, find it empty. He raises an eyebrow, and a warm rush of embarrassment rises in my cheeks.

"Do you," he pauses, letting intention seep into his tone, "do something to your hair to get it to look like that?"

"What?" I must've misheard him over the music.

"Your hair." He tilts his head at me, mouth quirking up at the corner. "It's really shiny."

I can't help it, I laugh. Right in his face.

"That's your question? You could've asked me anything you wanted, and your go-to was 'your hair is shiny?'"

"I can't help it. Your hair is shiny." He doesn't know it, but complimenting my hair is exactly the right thing to say. It's dark brown, just-past boob length, and my pride and joy. My child. I probably spend more on conditioner than I do on groceries every month.

"Plus," he adds, and I'm hit with an almost woodsy, spicy, scent as he leans in, "that wasn't my only question."

"Oh?"

"Do you..." Another pause. I wonder if he practices in the mirror. "Want to go somewhere a little quieter?"

"You're not even going to buy me dinner first?" He clicks his tongue, and now I'm thinking about his tongue and finding somewhere quieter, and all the things he could do, with that tongue, somewhere quieter. Suffice to say, I'm not thinking very clearly.

"What did you think I was asking about? Surely your mind didn't go... somewhere else?" I feel his breath on my neck as he speaks, and the awareness of how close we are pools low in my stomach.

"Somewhere quiet sounds good." He grins, and my stomach does another unhelpful flip as I realize he has a dimple. One, singular, dimple.

"I know just the place. Come on." He holds his hand out, and it closes over mine, warm and reassuring.

When he starts to weave through the crowd, toward the entrance, I can't help it. I follow.