“Setting an alarm for six minutes from now.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I don’t think you really want to make out with me for the next seven, based on how freaked out you look, and I can’t lose face.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry. When my alarm goes off, all I’m gonna do is make it look like we’ve been making out the entire time, ’kay?” He shoved his phone in his pocket, blanketing us in darkness once again.
I felt the warmth of his fingertips down my arm, and goose bumps broke out across my skin. He spoke in a whisper I could barely hear because of the noise beyond the door. “I feel like I know you. What’s your name?”
“I’m Poppy.”
“Like the flower?”
“Yeah. Like the flower.”
“You think I’ll get high if I sniff you?”
“What? I don’t—”
He huffed a little laugh. “Never mind. That was dumb. I’m Lance, like what you’d do to a wound.”
I giggled and clapped a hand over my mouth.
“You think I’m funny?” His accent was heavy, thick. So were his words. He’d probably been drinking. I think most of the people at the party had been. I think maybe my drink had alcohol in it too, and that’s why my whole body felt suddenly fuzzy and hyper-alert at the same time.
I nodded, but realized he couldn’t see me so I responded with a quiet yes.
“How old are you, Poppy like the flower?”
“Fourteen,” I lied. “How old are you?”
“I turn fifteen tomorrow.”
“Happy almost birthday.”
“Thanks. Where do you go to school?”
I gave him the name of the local Catholic high school. I liked that he sounded disappointed we didn’t go to the same one.
He took my hand and played with my fingers. It was a heady feeling that made the hair rise on my neck and my skin prickle. “Has anyone ever kissed you before, Poppy?”
That time I didn’t lie. “No.”
“I should be sorry I’m gonna be yer first, then.” He lifted my hand, and I felt his hot breath on my fingertips, then softness as they brushed against something. It was his lips, I realized.
“Why?” My voice didn’t sound like it belonged to me.
“Because I’m going to take something you can’t ever get back.” His words were old. Sad.
“What if I tell you it’s okay to take it? Would that make you feel better?”
“Not really.” He dropped my hand, and I felt his fingers in my hair, tugging gently on the end of my ponytail, then moving down to my shoulder. I was wearing my sister’s top. It had thin straps, ones my mom wouldn’t approve of. It was too big on me, and it came down too low.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because I’m not sorry the way I should be.” His fingers followed the strap all the way down to where my heart was, then moved back up, traveling along my neck to my jaw until his thumb skimmed my bottom lip. I shivered.
“Oh.”
His chuckle was dark like a night with no stars. “One day, when I’m a famous hockey player, you can tell your friends I kissed you in a closet.” His phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and silenced it. “Time’s almost up, pretty Poppy.”
He skimmed my arms, and when he reached my hands, he drew them up, clasping them behind his neck. “Keep them right there, okay? Don’t move them, please.”
“Why not?”
“Because that feels nice, and I want this to be perfect.”
“Okay.” I didn’t really understand what that meant, but I followed his directions, my tummy flipping over and over as I pushed up on my toes in order to link my fingers.
He was so much taller than me, it brought me right up against his body. Fear and excitement merged. He released a shaky breath that smelled like sweet alcohol and ground out a curse that made me blush.
Once again I felt his fingertips on my cheek. The pads were rough, but the touch was gentle.
“Tilt your chin up for me,” he whispered, guiding me with his thumb along my jaw.
I did as he asked, shaking. My mouth was dry. I wet my lips with my tongue. My head felt light.
“You okay?” I felt his warm, humid breath against my neck.
“Uh-huh.” I gave a tiny nod.
“Don’t be scared.” His lips touched my cheek. “I won’t hurt you.”
The next brush of his lips found the corner of my mouth. I sucked in a breath as weird tingles shot through me. He pressed his lips against mine, and the tingles became tiny explosions.
After a few seconds, he pulled back. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”
“No.” It came out a whisper. I wanted him to do it again.
“This time when I kiss you, will you open your mouth a little?”
“Okay.”
“And when that door opens, remember who I was in here, ’kay? That’s the real me.”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond. Instead he pressed his lips to mine again. This time he pulled my bottom lip between his. I did what he asked and parted mine. His tongue touched my top lip, and I gasped. Then I felt the gentle, hot sweep of his tongue in my mouth. I gripped the back of his neck, and his arm came around me, hugging me close. His other hand came up to cradle the back of my head. He made a sound like he was in pain and angled my head to the side, his tongue sweeping my mouth again and again.
On the next slow stroke, I pressed my tongue forward, mimicking his movements, and his arm tightened around me further. There was no space between our bodies, and heat seemed to be building inside me, along with an ache low in my stomach and a wildness I hadn’t known existed until then.
His phone beeped again, and he made another sound, this time almost despondent, and a trickle of regret made me hold on to him tighter.
I didn’t know what to call the emotion that swelled inside me then, but years later I can identify it as lust. In that moment, I thought I was falling in love.
The door was wrenched open, darkness giving way to light that blinded me. Lance tried to grab for the handle to shut us back in, but my sister was right there, pushing her way between us. She yanked me away by the arm, and I stumbled back, off kilter.
“Poppy! What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled.
She flattened her palm against Lance’s chest and shoved him away when he reached for me again. “Don’t touch my sister.”
I got one last glimpse of him as she dragged me away through the crowd of screaming teenagers. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his pale green eyes locked on mine. The emotions I saw there were staggering, everything from hunger to anger filtering through. I swear he mouthed I’m still not sorry before the crowd swallowed me.
Lance’s hands cover mine, and his voice is a gravelly rasp, snapping me out of my inappropriate memories. “Poppy.”
“Is it too much pressure?”
“I think you need to stop.”
“I’m so sorry.” I attempt to drop my hands, but he’s holding them in place. His breathing is heavy, as if he’s anxious. My thumb is below his bottom lip. That full bottom lip I was just thinking about. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
He clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s not the problem.”
“I don’t underst—” The words get caught in my throat as I lift my gaze. The white sheet covering his body has a lump below his waist. A very obvious, ample lump.
He releases my hands, and they slide down either side of his neck. The action makes his erection twitch.
“Oh.” It comes out a squeak. I place my palms on the table on either side of his head.
“Oh is right.” He sort of cough-laughs.
“You really aren’t compensating at all.” I slap a hand over my mouth, because it’s probably the most inappropriate thing I’ve ever said to a client. “I’m so sorry,” I say from behind my hand.
This time Lance snorts.
I try to reclaim professionalism. “That’s a totally normal reaction.”