Sixteen
Bri
The wine bar was great, the silent rave a fun surprise, but what Liem said has me worrying I misled him. I’ve been so careful to keep my attraction to him under wraps, giving him space while keeping him close. Hearing him say he wanted me, in that way, threw me.
Back at the apartment, I’m warm, fuzzy, dancing on the line between buzzed and drunk. Liem’s cheeks are flushed, flattering his already beautiful features. The walk was only a block and a half, but we barely said a word. The crackling tension felt like a static shock whenever we made eye contact.
Words hang heavy in the air. Is he regretting what he said? Is he still thinking about it? Should I say something?
Liem and spontaneity are not friends. There’s no telling how long he’s been thinking about kissing me before he finally let himself do it.
The minute we’re inside the apartment, he has that look again. A cross between wanting to apologize to me and wanting to ravish me. I swerve him again, grabbing the rest of our challah bread from the kitchen. “Sober snack?” I offer.
“Yes, please.”
I hop up onto the island countertop and wrestle with the tie of the plastic bag. Liem stands beside me, leaning his hip against the counter, his hand settling a painful inch away from my thigh. That spark crackles again, making me scared to look at him.
“I’m sorry if I made things awkward at the bar,” he says, his cadence slower than usual. “We’ve had a lot to drink. I might not be making the best thoughts or having the brightest decisions right now.” His eyes narrow as he tries to figure out his mistake.
“Try again,” I say with a laugh, handing him a piece of bread.
He smiles at his misfortune then takes a bite as if that will help. “I’m sorry. That’s all.”
“Don’t be,” I say, tugging at the strings of his hoodie. “We’re good.”
Sure, it was just a kiss, but for him, it’s not about the kiss itself.
It’s what led to the kiss; the feeling that allowed the kiss to happen at all.
The trust—or love—that opens a door for him into a world he doesn’t step into easily.
If that door is open for him, if I was the one who opened it, I’m not sure what that means for our relationship.
“We should go to bed,” I say.
Liem’s eyes linger on mine for too long, and I can’t seem to look away. Little in this world is easier to look at than him, especially those eyes, looking like golden labradorite in the lamplight.
He turns to face me, standing between my knees, his hand finding my waist as if we’re back on the dance floor. “Okay, I lied,” he says. I cock an eyebrow, knowing he can’t possibly be talking about not wanting carbs. “I’m not sorry.”
I swallow loudly. “You’re not?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “I figured it out a few weeks ago, but I’ve been too afraid to admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That I want you.”
My back instinctively arches toward him, a heartbeat appearing where it shouldn’t. “You do?”
“Yeah.” His gaze drops to my lips, and his hand flexes on my waist. “And I want to do a lot more than kiss you.” His eyes return to mine. “If that’s okay.”
My body vibrates. I mean to put enough space between us to breathe, but moving away from him feels like a crime. “You can’t be saying things like that, Hoodie.”
His lips hover so close to mine. “Why not?”
“Because you’re pretty. And I’m horny.”
“I can fix one of those. If you let me.”
I’m shivering again. The mere concept of self-control sounds as tangible as me having perfect credit. In my moment of hesitation, his hands glide over my lower back then grip my hips, stoking the flame inside me.
“You really want this?” I ask in a whisper.
“You?” Liem nods, his nose brushing against mine. “Bad.”
He closes the small distance, and our lips meet. All over again, I fall apart beneath his kiss. The rush he gives me is better than any sex I’ve had in my life. His thumb presses down on my chin, letting his tongue slip between my lips. Fuck. Who is this man?
His tongue licks mine, his lush lips sucking mine in a slow, deliberate way.
The kiss of someone who enjoys kissing you, not someone trying to push you toward something more.
I hum with enjoyment against his lips, and he sighs in return.
He tugs my hips against him. His sudden dominance surprises and stimulates me.
He lifts me by the thighs, and my legs wrap around his waist while he carries me somewhere.
To his bed? To hell? I couldn’t care less.
The couch cushions catch me. Liem lies between my legs, the slow roll of his hips against me pushing my thighs up and apart, his erection rubbing against me through frustrating layers of fabric I burn to remove. His mouth finds my neck, and heat blooms through me as quick as wildfire.
His hips flex in a perfect rhythm, his tongue teasing me in time with the music of our breaths and the creak of the couch. When he kisses me again, I’m gone.
I tug at the hem of his hoodie. He sits up, unzipping it while I do the same with his fly. His breath is quick, a smile tilting his kiss-swollen lips. How long I’ve envisioned this, hoped it would happen, and now it’s here.
But is this the right time?
Looking in his eyes, I see his pupils are dilated. My inability to focus my eyes on his for longer than a second shows I’m in a similar state.
When Liem touches me, when he takes me, I want him to feel every emotion he needs. I want him to remember every detail of the comfort and pleasure I give him. And I want to feel it all, nothing numbed or influenced.
Consent is everything, and we are in no shape to provide that right now. We have to stop.
“We’re drunk,” I say. He is. I’m more drunk on him than anything else right now.
“We should stop.” He vocalizes my thought.
“We should,” I agree reluctantly.
He rolls off me and onto his side, cursing under his breath. I can see, blurry at first, then very, very clear, the outline of the erection hiding in his pants. He pulls the blanket over our laps with a heavy sigh. I groan in frustration. Being responsible fucking sucks.
“What if we didn’t touch each other,” he suggests. I pick up what he’s putting down. “That doesn’t count, right?”
I shake my head. “That definitely doesn’t count.”
Both of us fiddle beneath the blanket, moving in sync the way we agree on everything else. I slide my fingers into my panties and find I’m already wet. How could I not be after coming so close to what I’ve been imagining while touching myself all those other times?
My head lies on his arm, my hand cupping his cheek to keep him looking at me. I stare into his eyes, seeing his shoulder move but never looking down. It’s intimate this way, knowing what is going on without seeing it. Imagining what he’s doing to himself while I touch myself to the idea of it all.
I’m the first to make a sound—an embarrassed whimper of pleasure.
“You don’t have to be quiet,” he whispers. “I love the way you sound.”
He’s so fucking sexy. “Shut up.”
A conniving grin spreads across his gorgeous face, his arm still moving. “Then kiss me.” I do.
My pussy tenses around my fingers. I slide them out and move them to my clit, shuddering with the intensity of the stimulation. How am I this close already?
Our breaths grow heavy. I could reach over and touch him, take him to the edge. Instead, it’s just me, getting myself off while he watches.
“Are you close?” he asks in a breathy voice.
“Yes. I’m . . . I’m . . .” I can’t talk when it hits me.
He catches my lips, and I lose it, moaning against him while I come. After a few seconds, he does the same, breaking our kiss just long enough for me to hear him make the most delectable sound I’ve heard in my life.
We lie in the aftermath, silent except for our slowly tapering breaths. If I’m truly awake and not dreaming, it doesn’t last much longer. I fade into sleep, wondering how that will go over in the morning.