by *Miss Theresa*
Ten seconds to the point of contact. Electric stares; the kind that turn your stomach to jello… Eye contact connecting, breaking. Wanting to look into his eyes, but not brave enough to do so for more than a second. Quick upturned glances; looking just long enough to see him smirk, making blood boil then freeze. An arm’s length away, yet a universe-sized distance apart. Lips too far away to kiss, but smoldering eyes fasten me into his personal space.
I fuss with a paper scrap and dare to look again. His held is tilted with a quirky confidence, making me wonder if it is all just an act of false bravado.
He stares. He smirks. He waits. He teases. He waits some more. He makes me weak in the knees and turns me upside down. I feel like every clichéd love song and every sappy movie enjoyed by giggling lovelorn ladies. I feel impossibly goofy.
Nine seconds to contact. Just several breaths away.
He looks at her, wanting nothing but to touch his lips to her petalsoftness. It is imprinted in his eyes. He doesn’t want to make love to her. Not just yet. He just wants to taste her breath. He wants to feel the lifeblood of her lips. He wants to touch the tip of his tongue to the fragrance of her neck and fuse their separateness. He wants to melt into her.
Six… unconsciously we move closer together. I can smell his cologne, and open myself to it, to the glorious deep deliciousness of it, and knowing distance between us is decreasing.
Five… four… three… we move closer still, somehow. And closer still, as if gravity was pushing them together. And closer.
Two… he stares and I stare. The awkwardness is deathly sexy, which only makes things feel like guilt. We both smirk and snicker and feel like schoolchildren. Our eyes lock and release, and I welcome all of the background distractions. I enjoy the intensity of the unfulfilled passion, but wish it to end.
One… somehow we are “right there.” So very “right there.” Our eyes lock and release again, and he reaches to me for the first time. We have reached the point of contact. We are solely in the moment. And I expect him to touch my face, my neck, my cheek, but instead, his fingertips play through the ends of my hair. He half strokes, half sweeps the wispy ends of the heavy fullness. This simple unexpected act dizzies me, emptying my lungs of breath, my bones of marrow, and my heart of blood. Time stops.
I look down to witness his strong hands playing through the straightwave of curls which are the color of blackcherry soda. He caresses just the ends, fearing to move up further, not wanting to break this entrancing moment. Tangible shockwaves of restraint keep his fingers from following the tresses to the source. It is maddening. My lips pulse. My heart thumps. I watch his fingers lace and coil through the ends, just the ends of my hair, through the texture of melted chocolate.
His self control is overwhelming. His confidence is deadly. His smirky smile is sex. He plays these cards without thinking and I flounder, fully lost in this moment. He is content to just be in my personal space and touch my hair as if this act is desire-come-to-reality.
His full hand is in my hair, and softly tugging, as if plucking a juicy apple from a treebranch. Not quite a pull, not quite a grasp, my brain short circuits and I struggle not to crumple to the floor. I can feel him playing there as if my tresses are nerve endings. Testing me, touching, trusting, trying, forever registering my reaction; waiting for acknowledgement. Confirmation, permission or even a possible hint of discomfort. My legs are incapable of holding me steady as his hand continues to relish this luxury.
I look at him, his face crackly silver sparks all aimed at me, and with a now-or-never attitude I say, “any more of that and I wont say ‘no’ to anything you want of me.”
A half-raised eyebrow and he breathes out, “that’s the idea” and grabs a handful of hair from the nape of my neck and pulls me into his intimate space placing his mouth just inches from mine. I was breathless upon breathless. No air but his flowing into me. I swallow his desire for me in that instant.
Our lips weren’t touching, but I could feel him on me. His hand stayed in my hair, now a tangle of fingers and flounce. He whispered out and into my mouth “does this make you nervous?”
“Of course not,” I lie, I fake.
“What about this?” He scrums his fingers on the flesh of my scalp, neck and nape, all the while holding me, still, controlled, his.
“Not really.” I muster.
“This?” He pulls me closer still, and with a handful of my hair, he tilts my head and smiles deliciously. Daring me.
My lips twitch. My lips want. My eyes wander. We smile dangerously. This is the instantkill. This is-.
We reach the point of no return as his other hand goes to the small of my back and guides me the last inch to him. I exhaleinhalexhaleinhale… Warmcreamy mouth on mine. His hand pulls and stretches my hair pushing me, pulling me to the place where his mouth can explore my soul.
I feel him exhaleinhalexhaleinhale as if he is pleased that this was all planned.
Our tongues move and our lips twitch, and heat is exchanged in our kiss. The bright room is now black ink and I can see nothing as my eyes want to cheat me of his face. Although it is full daylight, the city behind us twinkles and shimmers as day has turned to night upon the initial moment that our lips touched.
Our passion is a mushroom cloud bellowing out from our locked embrace. An out of control brushfire sucked into a vacuum of our intimate space. The force of a rainforest downpour. The perfection of a fanning peacock on full display. The joy of a favorite song playing JUST when you need it. The pinnacled bliss of every “happily ever after.” And this was only from lips touching and clothed bodies pressed to the other’s. But his was THE ultimate kiss. The simultaneous “ah” from a crowd immersed in the grand finale of fireworks when the sky is exploding purple and goldflame and silver shimmer and tinkling, falling, sizzling sparks. The moment was ours. And in that moment we wrote sonnets, and swam oceans. In mere seconds we traveled beyond any place on a map, and learned things no person could teach us. But in ten seconds more, his hands were no longer in my hair, his mouth, not on mine, and no sonnets were written. We were back to what we were moments before. We were just two people afraid to lose themselves in each other, too afraid to take that leap. Two people that had no idea what they were missing in those ten seconds, never reaching that point of contact, the ten seconds to an opportunity that they would never get back.