“I hate him,” he spits. With his eyes now trained on the window again, I approach him in an effort to comfort him. His features might be hard and his expression might be twisted, but I know he’s genuinely upset. I can hear it in his voice, and I can see it in his eyes.
It’s dark now, and the music from the beach is beginning to fade away to nothing as the party wraps up. The moon is floating above the ocean and there’s a soft glow illuminating the condo. Tyler’s face is lit up, and I slowly edge over to the bed, where he’s slumped. His eyes drift up to meet mine when I step in front of him.
I’m shivering. Not because it’s cold in here, but because nerves are rattling every inch of my body. Tyler’s still holding my stare and he just looks anxious and I wonder if he’s expecting me to bombard him with more questions, but that’s not my intention. My intentions are better.
Nervously, I reach out for his face and cup his jaw with both hands, forcing him to hold my gaze as I sit myself down on his lap. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. I don’t think I’m quite breathing either. I move my lips to his but linger before I get there, and we stay like that, just him and me, for a short while. It’s comforting yet absolutely terrifying at the same time, and I know he’s just waiting for me to lean in, and I know I want to, but I wait. I wait until I feel his breath against my cheek.
“Thank you for trusting me,” I whisper ever so carefully against his jaw, and then I finally kiss him.
Through the darkness and the silence, something ignites. I don’t know what it is, I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel it. I feel the way my pulse takes off and my heart aches in my chest, and I feel the way goose bumps begin to appear all over my body, the hairs on my arms rising, and I feel Tyler’s lips against mine. Plump and moist and eager, just like always. I can feel him channeling his hurt, his anger…I can feel him channeling it into desire. It’s that desire for something we both want but can’t have.
He tastes like beer and tobacco, but there’s something enthralling about it. It’s so familiar, because it’s so him, his permanent taste. He kisses me slowly and slips his hands under my skirt, squeezing my ass as he sits up. I’m still in his lap and I press my chest hard against his as I rub my thumbs against his skin, his jaw still cupped between my hands. I feel the muscles in his arms tighten as he lifts me off his lap and lays me back down on the bed next to him. My entire body feels like ice, frozen beneath him as he hovers over me, his hand sliding along my thigh beneath my skirt. For a second I worry that I’m suffering from paralysis, but my lips are still moving, still kissing, so I’m not. It’s just anxiety and the fear of the unknown.
But no matter how nervous and nauseated I’m starting to feel, I refuse to tear my lips away from Tyler’s. He suddenly intensifies the kiss, quickening the pace, and while my lips are locked with his, I let go of his face and shrug off my sweater. I pull it out from beneath me and toss it to the side. When my hands find their way back to Tyler, they’re reaching for his white T-shirt. My arms feel numb as I awkwardly fumble around with the hem, trying my best to figure out how to pull off his shirt without breaking the kiss. He notices my struggle and laughs against my lips. It’s a hearty laugh, the kind of laugh that makes you smile back, a laugh that makes you feel comfortable. Pulling away and sitting on his knees, he swiftly yanks the T-shirt off and throws it over his shoulder. My cheeks flush with color as my eyes linger on his chest and his abs and the indention of his V lines, and it makes me wonder if I’m dreaming, because Tyler belongs in Abercrombie & Fitch, not here on the bed with me.