“Thank you.” I stood, accepted it, and took several long gulps.
Matt turned and pulled off his jacket, discarding it to the cushion behind me. He then loosened his tie, which drew my attention.
“Oh, that’s the tie I got you.” I glanced between him and it, shocked I hadn’t noticed it before now.
He nodded and laid it reverently on top of his jacket, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. “You said to wear it when I needed good luck.”
Nothing about his comment sounded offhanded, and my stomach fluttered accordingly.
I took another drink from the bottle, eyeing him. “Did you need luck tonight?” I cursed the slight tremor in my voice.
He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets, considering me for a beat before admitting quietly, “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too,” I agreed quickly, bringing the bottle back to my lips and scowling at it when no water emerged. I studied its contents, realizing it was empty, then laughed at myself. “I guess I was thirsty.”
Matt’s smile was small and his nod was subtle. Despite the mass of bodies clearly visible beyond the wall of glass, or perhaps because of them, their frenzied movement in comparison to the stillness between us, the moment felt loud with significance and tension.
My anxiety returned, mostly because I didn’t truly regret playing footsie with Matt. And therefore, since I didn’t regret it, I felt anxious about what I might do next.
Setting the empty bottle on the table, I turned and gazed at the huge dance floor. The lights had just dimmed beyond the glass, leaving our little room darker.
Thoughts like, maybe you can have one night together, where is the harm in that? kept floating through my mind, seducing me with the fantasy and provocative flashes of images. My lungs had difficulty drawing in enough air.
“Marie?” Matt asked from directly behind me, and I couldn’t help but think, this would be a great place to have hot sex. We should totally do that.
A short intro on drums followed by a solo saxophone playing a familiar melody reverberated over the speakers. I recognized the song, but couldn’t immediately place it, as I was too busy talking myself into making a move on him.
“Yes?” My skin felt too tight, so when I felt Matt’s fingers in my hair, pushing it to the side, I released a surprised—yet not surprised—breath.
He bent to my ear, whispering, “We have to dance to this. Come on.”
“What?” I glanced over my shoulder and tracked him with my eyes as he came around me, grabbing my hand. Perplexed and disappointed, I let him lead me out the door, to the dance floor, where the music was much louder and George Michael had just begun crooning.
Matt pulled me through the throng of bodies, then stopped near the center of the crowd. He encouraged my arms around his neck and placed his hands on my waist, pasting our bodies together.
We swayed to the music and I tilted my head back, watching with wonder as the nut began lip-syncing along with George Michael. Not only did he lip-sync, he lip-synced with feeling to “Careless Whisper” by Wham!
I giggled at his theatrics and his face split with a giant grin. I’d forgotten how funny he was. I loved this about him. My heart squeezed.
Spinning me out to one side, then twisting me toward him, my back connected with his front. His arms wrapped around my middle, his nose and lips nuzzling my neck and ear, his hips leading mine in an expert, sensual sway.
And that’s when I realized that Matt Simmons actually knew how to dance.
Like, really knew how to dance.
He had fantastic rhythm.
His feet weren’t guilty.
And moves. He had impressively good moves.
He was such a good dancer that he didn’t even appear to be thinking about it, like it was second nature. His hands smoothed from my shoulders down my arms, his fingers threading with my hands and lifting them, encouraging me to face him again as he returned them to his neck. All the while, still mouthing the words and moving his body as though it was an extension of the music, and therefore so was I.
Damn.
He was sexy.
The first iteration of the chorus drew to a close and the saxophone took over. Matt’s smile slowly waned as we gazed at each other, his hands sliding deliberately from my sides to my lower back. His dark eyes dropped to my mouth, heated, his lips parted, and he inclined his head just an inch closer.
I could only stare at him, feeling both paralyzed and caught by the thrilling yet terrifying current of his intent.
Terrifying because this was Matt. My crutch. My crush. My mountain of unrequited feelings. My friend who wasn’t really my friend, who I had non-friendly thoughts about.
All.
The.
Time.
I thought of him, of cuddling with him, of how he felt beneath my fingers, behind me, his lips on my neck . . .
He’s going to kiss me, the flare of panic only serving to intensify the sensations thickening my blood, sending me head-first into a spiral of confusion and desire.
If I gave in to this, surrendered to this thing between us, it wouldn’t be bravery.
It would be recklessness.
24
Iamus
A bio-inspired technology for music composition and synthetization of music, where computers do not mimic musicians, but develop their own style (with no human intervention).
Source: Melomics Media
His lips brushed mine. Just a soft whisper. It felt like a test.
It also felt like torture. He was torturing me.
Unable to endure his gentleness, I lifted my chin and dug my nails into the back of his neck, fusing our mouths together.
With feeling.
And that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed.
Abruptly, everything about him turned fierce, with biting teeth and devouring tongue. His strong arms wrapped around my body, as though to trap me, as he plundered my mouth in the most exquisite of all kisses.
Holy crap.
HOLY CRAP.
He was a great kisser.
I was dizzy with how great this felt, how necessary. Or maybe it was the lack of air. I didn’t know. All I knew was that we were just going to have to keep kissing for the rest of our lives and that was that.
And plunder was exactly the right word. He lifted his head, sucking on my lip, tasting me anew, groaning when I responded with enthusiasm, tightening his hold when I shifted against him, licking and stroking the inside of my mouth. The twisting ache in my abdomen became overwhelming.
And yet . . . I wanted to be sure he was enjoying himself. I wanted to make sure he was feeling the same fireworks of arousal and wonder that were igniting in my chest. So I endeavored to give, and give, and give.