Midnight Encounters

A Night at His House

Chapter Twelve: A Night at His House

I lean against the wall and watch him with hooded eyes as he stands uncomfortably. Our eyes are interlocked, and both of our breathing comes out in heavy pants of air. My head is spinning, not just from the alcohol, but the way his eyes roam over my body—even after he realized that I was tipsy. However, from the guarded look in his eyes, I can tell that he wasn’t planning on trying anything else tonight—other than possibly rubbing one out—and my heart sinks.

His gaze has dropped from mine, focusing on my stiletto-clad feet, but I can’t stop myself from looking him up and down. He has a tight, black dress shirt on, untucked and slightly unbuttoned, with a pair of dark jeans on the bottom. His shirt accentuates every bulging, flexing muscle—these muscles resulting from his workouts [in the nude]—and I flush at how… good he looks. Slightly casual, slightly classy. I glance down at my own relatively slutty dress and scowl at how high the skirt has ridden up my legs. I tug it down anxiously.

“Jackson.”

The word comes out in a drunken slur, and I don’t even mean to say his name. Did he even know that I know his name? Had he ever actually told me it?... The only reason he knew my name was because it was on the name-tag of my Starbucks uniform.

Those dark blue eyes of his abruptly flicker up to mine, and I jump back into the wall even more. They flash silver; a flurry of lust and hesitation mixed together in the depths. I hold my breath, and his gaze penetrates my very soul as if he is searching for something.

“Gwendolyn,” he finally breathes out, running a hand loosely through his darkish hair. He looks lost, not knowing what to do. My stomach churns and I suddenly become exhausted just from holding my breath. “I—”

But before he has a chance to continue, my throat gets tangled up, and I burst into a coughing fit.  I collapse unsteadily, only for him to catch me.

“Shìt, where is Kate?” he mutters in frustration, patting down his pockets with one hand for something. He turns up with nothing, and I place my chin on his neck, our bodies facing each other, as a wave of exhaustion passes through me. Fùck, my alcohol-breath, I think vaguely, but he smells so nice and he feels so good against me and I just don’t want to move.

A hand pats my back gently, lulling my eyes closed. “Gwen, do you have your phone?”

My phone? Do I have my phone? Or did I put it somewhere, never to find again… Ah yes, my phone; it’s in between my breasts for safe keeping, of course! I murmur that out softly, so soft I’m not sure he can hear me over the club, but when his hand quickly dips down between the curves of my breasts, I giggle because it tickles.

“Passcode?”

Passcode, passcode, passcode…. “7-4-3-7.”

“Thanks.” He rummages around on it for a minute, and then I hear the familiar beeps of the dial tone ringing.

“You have reached the phone of Kate Pontillion; I apologize that you cannot reach me at the moment, but if you are in need of me, leave a message at the beep! Oh, and if you are Gwennie-Bear, screw you, I want my bra back! Beep!”

The slight tremors of his chuckles as he listens to Kate’s personalized voicemail cause my body to vibrate. My eyes fly open for a moment, but they soon flutter closed; the bright, flashy lights of the club are too much to handle.

“Where the fùck are you, Kate? Gwen’s sick so I’m going to head back to the apartments with her. Not sure where her apartment is, or of she’s coherent enough to tell me, but my apartment number is 204. Call me when you get this.” He backs away from me, but continues to support my weight. “C’mon, Gwen, let’s get you out of here.”