Chapter 6 Where are my fellow prudes? #2
My engine is pistoning faster than usual, but I’ve got this, because I’ve realized something.
I don’t have to manhandle anyone. I don’t have to make a spectacle of myself.
And I don’t even have to remember what they were all wearing.
My solution is binary. If the man in front of me is wearing a scarf, I’ll know it’s Sean, and I’ll shout out someone else’s name.
If he isn’t wearing a scarf, I’ll know it’s not Sean, and I’ll shout out his name.
It’s genius. I’ll take my Nobel Prize now.
“Ready,” Emmy cries. “Set. Go!”
With all the confidence of a sturdy handshake, I reach out in front of me, chest level, prepared for my fingers to meet either silky scarf material or something else—maybe the silk-lined V neck of a vest or thick, high-thread-count dress shirt cotton.
What I don’t expect is for them to meet skin. Warm skin. And… is that chest hair?
Holiest of holy shits, whoever this is, he’s shirtless!
I snatch my hand back as if the guy is made of lava. He’s not, but I think my face is. I was not prepared for this—a half naked, fully hot mystery man waiting to be groped. All around me, the other contestants giggle and squeal and have fun with it. Meanwhile, I’m paralyzed.
I can’t just stand here. Nothing will be more noticeable than that. Besides, I need to figure out who this is in front of me, and I need to do it fast.
I reach out with a cupped hand, this time higher, and make contact with a cheek. There’s facial hair there. Sean has a Vandyke right now. I got a really close look at it when he leaned in and asked, You’ll do it, won’t you?
Something liquefies inside me as I think about that husky voice and those pouty lips while my thumb trails itself across the jaw in front of me. Madre de Dios, I’m getting turned on. That’s not allowed. Not here. Not now.
Besides, this might not even be Sean. Who else is growing facial hair at the moment? I can’t remember!
Panic revs its engines, but not today, Satan. Maybe I can tell who this is by the hair on his head.
I go for a blitz, two-handed, but my detective work is thwarted by hairspray. I’m not sure what I’m feeling, but it’s sticky and stiff. I run my fingers along the hairline behind his ears. No curls. It’s not Jason Connor. That’s good. I didn’t accidentally get turned on by my best friend’s husband.
Oh God, I’m overthinking this. I need to focus.
Oh God, now I’m frozen.
Oh God, now I can’t even think. Think!
Emmy and Terica are poking fun at the fact that I’m standing like a statue with one hand barely touching the short hairs behind some extremely hot movie star’s ear. I’m sure I look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous. Tomorrow, I’m going to be all over the gossip columns. Win or lose, I’ve blown it.
Then a warm hand closes over mine. With my vision taken away from me, I’m acutely aware of the mild calluses against my fingers.
I catch a whiff of spicy cologne as he brings my hand to his mouth.
His breath is hot on my fingertips, and all the frozen parts of me melt because somewhere in my subconscious brain I know who this is even before his lips press ever so slightly to plant a kiss against the pads of my fingers.
Oh my God, those lips! That mouth that haunts my dreams just kissed my fingers!
And the sensation is so soft and intimate that I almost forget I’m blindfolded on a stage in front of who knows how many viewers, imagining instead that we’re in a room all alone, curtains drawn, shadows thick, blood running hot and fast, the bomb inside me ticking down the seconds.
Should I take advantage of this? I mean, this is Sean O’Sullivan standing shirtless in front of me saying, Grope me; I’m famous.
And I want to, so badly, even though he’s the worst possible guy for me to have a celebrity crush on.
I can’t afford to be in the limelight, and he bathes in the limelight. Swims in it. Luxuriates in it.
Now I’m imagining a shirtless Sean O’Sullivan luxuriating. Oh no, am I breathing? Great. I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“Are you okay?” The words vibrate against my fingers, and suddenly, I have a terrible realization.
That wasn’t a kiss at all. He was just moving his lips to talk to me, you know, because I’m in the middle of a crisis, and the rules say we’re not supposed to talk, but I obviously need an intervention.
It wasn’t a kiss at all. It was pity.
Prickles break out across my skin. This is way worse than the Mexican bus story.
I’m certain Sean can see the effect he’s having on me.
My whole body is on fire with desire and mortification and prickling.
In fact, my neurons seem as confused as I am.
They’re all running around asking the other neurons What just happened?
I don’t know, neurons! I don’t know what just happened!
But you know what I do know? I know that the man standing in front of me is Sean O’Sullivan. And that’s all I need to know.
I open my mouth and say a name.