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So I take it.
My trembling hand falls on her face. Brushes her cheek. Scrapes around the back of her neck.
I grip her there and pull her up, inhaling the quick huff of breath that escapes her when I do. She adjusts to the new angle, her kiss a punishment more than a caress. Warring. Passionate. A neon sign that says ‘I don’t want to like this but I do’.
An unfamiliar hunger wells, pouring out of a place I never knew existed. It doesn’t trickle to the surface. Nothing that slow and languid.
It snaps.
Breaks.
A critical injury that can never heal.
Everything between us is fake.
But this moment is real. It’s mine.
Her oxygen is mine.
Her little shudder of pleasure.
Her fingers clutching my collar and her chest scraping my tux.
A switch has been flicked and I don’t know how to flick it off. Wouldn’t even try to.
Until something odd tugs at my brain.
Some annoying sense of propriety.
I hear the awkward silence in the room.
Hear the squeaking, hesitant voice of the director whispering, “E-excuse me? Yoo-hoo.”
I disconnect my mouth from Yaya’s—just a smidge, see the string of saliva between our lips catch the light, and blink like I’m coming out of another world.
“T-that’s enough,” the photographer says. “I-I think we got it.”
I hear him.
Yaya… uh… doesn’t.
She surges forward again, her passionate kisses making it extremely difficult not to force her legs apart right here in front of an audience.
I tap her waist in a silent time-out and she stills.
Light brown eyes burst open. Hands up, like someone pointed a gun at her head. Like she got caught doing something she shouldn’t.
She’s smart. Way too aware of her surroundings. It doesn’t take her long to figure out what’s going on. How everyone’s staring. Why I tapped her.
A moment later, her entire body goes rigid, every muscle taut. She scrambles off me, heels almost skidding to the ground in her haste. She catches her balance and shoots straight to her feet.
If she were wearing a crown, it would be crooked.
Yaya’s eyes dart to the corner. I don’t know what Jenny signs to her, but it makes Yaya swallow hard, lick her lips and ask for a break.
“Great job, everyone. Let’s call it a day,” the director says, fanning himself. “Can someone turn the air conditioner up? It’s hot in here!”
Yaya makes a point not to look at me when she stalks off with Jenny.
