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“I won't, if you don't want me to.”
Our mouths remain close, and I close my eyes and fight the breathing difficulty intensifying every moment since Bryn said he loved me. That he wants me.
“You can tell a lot about how somebody feels from their kiss,” I whisper, echoing his words from January.
“I know.” Bryn's mouth finally meets mine, soft at first until I press mine harder, and indicate I want his kiss. I'm surrounded by the strength and heat of the man who I swore I would never think about again; the one holding my face as his kiss deepens. I wind my arms around Bryn's neck, body firing where we meet and I part my mouth, eagerly tangling my tongue with his.
His kiss is the same as every other we’ve shared, the intense passion that lies inside Bryn matched with his awareness of my response, a memory of how I like to be kissed. From the first time Bryn kissed me, when he wasn’t mine, I became his. There was something familiar in his lips, as if I’d found the ones I belonged to.
One crazy evening, Bryn crashed into my life and stole my heart with a kiss. In exchange, he left a promise on my lips that one day he'll return my heart with his.
Aware we're in public when his hands slide to my ass and pull me into him, I stop. Bryn strokes my cheek with the back of his hand and kisses my forehead.
“Is my kissing improving?”
“There was never anything wrong with your kissing,” I murmur.
“I know,” he whispers in my ear and I shiver at the arousal tingling through me.
“Of course, you do.”
“But I do intend to do that more, if you'll let me.” His words spoken against my cheek sear my skin, the ache between my legs he started with the kiss building.
“Maybe I’ll say yes to the sleepover,” I say shocked at my boldness.
My body finally wins.
He laughs then kisses me in a way that nobody ever has or will again, a kiss that tears the breath from my lungs and drags the remaining parts of my heart and soul into his, into the place created for me. This kiss holds passion, need, and more.
I disentangle myself, and he strokes my face with the back of his hand. “Let’s finish this date first.”
Bryn hugs me around the shoulders and bewildered by the change of pace, I allow him to walk us back into the busy streets. We arrive at a bustling bar, a larger venue filled with noise and students, where Bryn takes us to the crowded bar.
“I don’t want a drink!” I call in his ear. What I want is to go back to the hotel with him.
“Let’s dance then!’ he calls back.
I widen my eyes in horror. I can't dance.
Without waiting for a reply, Bryn drags me into the centre of the crowd of bodies on the small dance floor nearby and pulls me close.
I don’t know how long we dance, or how often I trip over my feet, or step on Bryn’s because I’m lost. The Bryn I met has always been a joker, a liver of life, spontaneous and a little crazy, but there was a shadow around him that’s gone.
The man with me now, this tall, sexy, fantasy of a man who teased me when we met, kissed me like there’s no tomorrow, and looks at me as if I’m his world, is infectiously happy.
We laugh, we dance, we let go—to the night, to us, to the future. Wrapped together, kissing at the edge of the dance floor, I’m unaware of anything but the heat between us at the points our bodies touch, the taste of the man who’s giving himself to me, and the euphoria of being held in the arms of Bryn Hughes, the guy who took my heart, but returned it to me with his.
* * *
We head backto the hotel, holding hands as we wander the cobbled streets. Bryn suggests another drink at the hotel bar, putting off the moment when we decide where the evening ends. Sitting close in a darkened corner, bodies moulded naturally together, I cuddle into Bryn's side. As we drink and chat, Bryn constantly strokes my skin or kisses my head, a caring intimacy that’s his final step. This is real, and true; I felt it in his thumping heart beneath my palm when we kissed.
Where will tonight go? Do I take my final step towards Bryn too?
“My feet hurt,” I complain, “If I'd known I was going to be on my feet half the night, I'd have worn flats.” I kick my heeled shoes off, under the table.
“Here.” Bryn shifts around and pulls my feet onto his lap before starting to massage them.
I have this unfortunate reaction to people touching my feet because instead of tickling, it turns me on. Bryn's fingers are firm, relieving one ache but creating another.
