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“This is how you say good morning?”
“To you, it is.”
“Then I’m glad we locked the door.” She closes the gap by inching up and touching her lips to mine.
At first, the kiss is tender. She sips my lips, tasting me.
I’m helpless. Lost in this feeling.
I let her do what she wants to me, move how she wants to move. I stay still and savor the feel of her lips against mine.
She moves her hand from my lower back up along the cotton of my shirt. She finds the nape of my neck. Her fingertips move up into my hair.
“Damp hair,” she whispers. “Shower?”
“Shower.” I don’t know if either of us is making sense. Don’t care.
I dip my lips down to hers and drink her in as if she’s medicine that I badly need.
And, in a way, she is.
I need Gwen.
That is becoming more and more clear to me with each passing moment.
“You smell nice after you shower,” she whispers as her fingers move up into my hair again. “Just like at your house yesterday, at breakfast. So fresh. Soapy and?—”
The sentence ends when our lips fuse again.
This time, the kiss is longer.
Deeper.
I can’t get enough of the feel of her hand as it strokes my neck. Her body, pressed to mine, feels so good I want to keep that door twisted locked for hours.
I know we can’t.
As it is, the locked door is probably generating some rumors. And when we step out? Those rumors might get worse.
But I want to stay in here, with her in my arms.
When we part, it feels like the room is spinning. The ground has shifted under my feet.
Now, this Wednesday morning is the one I’ll remember when I am an old man. I know that, for sure.
She steps away from me, and her brow creases as she eyes the door. “I think someone just rattled that handle. I bet any minute now, Janelle will be here with a set of spare keys. She’s not a facilities manager or anything, but she sure acts like it.”
I still feel dazed. It’s difficult to think about anything other than the desire flooding my body.
“That right?” I growl, consumed with the need to feel her lips on mine again.
“Yep. Oops, there she is. I can hear her and the keys jingling. Do I look okay?”
“You look perfect.”
Her smile is genuine but fleeting. “Thanks,” she whispers, “but I mean, like, okay, as in, do I look like I was just making out with you?”
“Is that what we were doing? Making out? That sounds like something teens do in the backs of cars, at some bluff overlooking town.”
