Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Thursday November 26th, 2017▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
The single lamp on my bedside table draws a circle that reaches me but allows Mike to stay in semi-darkness. My knee bounces so high it might strike my chin. I've never brought a guy into my bedroom before. Apart from a semester in New York, I'd lived with my parents for most of my life until I moved into this place with Am. Plus I never date people I can run into in Chicago. My preference is for a no-strings-attached temporary solutions that last as long as I'm on the road with a band, and don't have to turn into meeting my parents or visiting my apartment situations.
I stand up. My hands tremble as I remove my coat and shoes. I've undressed in front of guys plenty of times to know what I'm doing, but tonight is nothing like my normal. I tend to get to know the men, go on a couple of dates or date-adjacent occasions, not jump feet first into bed with someone I've known for less than a day. My fingers freeze at the hem of my shirt.
This is probably what my fans think I do on the regular: undress in front of virtual strangers. I don't. But damn it. I really really really want to undress in front of this particular stranger and to undress him. The pulsing desire we're holding between our bodies is new to me. I push the heel of my foot into the cheap synthetic fibers of my wall-to-wall carpet and glance at the man to my right.
He looks calm. His broad shoulders move with even breaths, like this is nothing out of the ordinary. Does he do this a lot? I bite my cuticles to occupy myself with something while Mike, bent at the waist, unlaces his biker boots. The urgency with which I got rid of his jacket is lost in his methodical unraveling of the loops. It's like having a Christmas present you've been asking for all-year-long that's taped so well, it takes you ages to get inside. I plop on the bed next to him with a loud sigh. He remains focused on his task.
One boot off, Mike starts on the second. I groan. I get what Regency Era men had to endure while the women undid their corsets. My knee resumes its erratic bouncing. I cross my legs, hoping to tamper my jitters. Every second of the delay cements my determination to tear his shoes off. "Couldn't you have worn something with Velcro?"
"I wasn't planning on. . . meeting you."
"You think other women love watching men unlace their boots?" I shake the pretzel of my legs side-to-side, unable to contain my impatience.
"Never had trouble before." A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.
"You are in trouble now." I jump off my bed, stand in front of him, and peel my long-sleeve T. The chill of the room makes itself known by sprinkling goosebumps across my arms. His fingers continue to work the hooks. "If you don't get the rest of your clothes off, I might have to resort to special measures."
His eyes travel up my torso and land on mine. The slow swollow on his throat is a clear indication he likes what he sees. "That, I want to know more about."
Mike's sentence tightens the already taut cables of lust, and if I have to motivate him to hurry, so be it. A good strip tease has been known to hasten the awkward undressing part, of which I'm not a fan, and deliver the main course in a much more expeditious manner.
I run my thumb under one strap of the bralette I have on-burgundy, a perfect match to my top that I threw by the door. I lower it. Mike's hands continue the struggle with the laces while his gaze, like a long bow, plays legato, starting from my lips and down to my mostly transparent garment.
"What's your favorite color?" The husky chest voice that comes out of me is a surprise. My skin betrays me with pink splotches where I want his hands and not his stare to slide over my ribs.
He focuses on my chest. "Dark red?" More of a question than an answer. Mike's fingers speed up, the last knot undone. The broad fiery strokes of his stare drag up my clavicle, linger on my neck, take an extra beat when they reach my mouth, and halt when our eyes meet again. "Or bluish-gray." He rips his boot off and rises. "You?"
At five-foot-ten and especially in heels, which I wear whenever I can, because tall girls can wear heels too, I'm used to looking most men in the eyes. Mike must be over six feet, because his lips are at my eye level. I forget about stripping and teasing. I lift my heels and take a bite of the best dish of the day.
Mike's low sharp exhale snaps the over-tightened desire that's been vibrating in me from the moment our hands met. His lips close around mine, and my first kiss with this stranger feels more comfortable than all other first or hundredth kisses before. The squirrels of anxiety leave my chest, creating room for the liquid fire to fill my entire diaphragm. Mike's ragged inhales steady my racing pulse. This thing between us is mutual. I'm not the only affected party.
We kiss. And we kiss. And we kiss for longer than the unlacing of ten pairs of boots would take. I soak up every dragging minute of it. We go slow and fast at the same time, delaying each touch until grabbing is the only possible way forward, lingering in the new sensations, and accelerating to reach for the highest highs. I lose myself in the music our bodies create. I get back to earth only after the victorious "ah" rushes past my lips when the tensing of my stomach ceases and the final note of my cry flies to the ceiling.
"Wow," says Mike.
I'm not ready for words as I lie on top of him. Our chests are seared together while the frigid air from the outside cools my sweaty exposed skin. The sound of Mike's heart under my ear competes with my own: thud, thump-thump, thud, thump-thump. Our offbeat rhythm is calming yet provocative, reminding me of what we have accomplished.
Sounds and thoughts flood my brain, racing to be the first to pass the information I have been ignoring for the last-I glance at the clock on the side table-hour? Three times in an hour-no wonder I'm worn out.
Does magic exist? I lift my head and look at Mike: his eyes closed, his breathing evening out. I search for an aura, a slight twinkle of fairy dust, or any other outward manifestation of his supernatural abilities. I find none, but his face holds so much human beauty, he doesn't need any assistance from the fairies. His eyes open, and Mike rolls me off him, ties up another condom, and throws it into the wastebasket by my dresser. Without the furnace of his body, I'm cold. I sit up and swing my feet off the bed, intent on closing the window, but he reaches out and grabs my hand.
"Hey, where y'going?" Mike sounds sleepy yet worried.
"Forgot to close the window when I left in the morning. Don't want us to turn into icicles."
"Come here." He drags me to his side, curls my back into his chest, and covers us up with the comforter. "I loved licking icicles as a child." His words trail off, and his arm grows heavy around me. Wide awake, I listen to his softening breaths, and a new melody creeps into my ear.
Thud, thump-thump, thud, thump-thump-the base and the drums interrupt each other in my head. An ethereal voice imitating a breath joins in. I forget where I am as I compose: my fingers move under the covers, and my lips mouth the words of the new lyrics, "We are spent, over, done."
The inside and outside warmth work together and decide it's time for me to close my eyes. I sleep.
