It’s the last song of their last set. My last chance to catch his eye.
My mouth is cotton-dry from a joint that some dude was passing around in the back row. I’d kill for a beer. The thought of hoppy bubbles makes my tongue feel thicker, scratchier.
But I finally worked my way through the sweaty, gyrating crowd. I am finally standing at the very front, so close that I can see the glisten on his forehead in the stage lights as he plays.
No way I’m leaving this spot. I’ve come for him. And he is what I’ll have.
I watch him slap the strings of his bass guitar, and imagine the roughness of his fingertips on my skin. His eyes are down, looking at his instrument so that his lashes leave shadows on his cheekbones, and I ache to kiss them. His luscious lips are parted in concentration, and I yearn to taste them, my once dry mouth watering. His body is swaying with the beat, and my body responds to his rhythm. We move together. We feel the music.
I am transfixed, tingling, titillated.
He flicks his head up to shake a dark curl out of his eyes. His focus shifts to the crowd. Our eyes meet.
I see that sultry twinkle in the depths of his rich brown eyes, and I know. I’ve hooked him.
For the remainder of this song, this set, this show, there is only me and him. When he smiles, I know he shines for me. When he licks his lips, I know he burns to lick mine. When his fingers move up and down the fret, I know he itches to touch my skin.
The song ends, the lead singer speaks, and we are still locked in this silvery flirty dance. I see him whispering to a band mate, motion in my direction as they leave the stage.
I know what comes next. This isn’t my first concert conquest. I wait.
And sure enough, I am soon being led backstage, back to him.
We are divinely alone in this small room. I take off my shoes. The checkered tile floor is blessedly cold on my hot feet. I pad, soundless, across the room to where he waits.
An oscillating fan whirrs towards us, cooling the sweat on my arms and chest, bringing up goosebumps. My skin is alive, waiting for his touch.
I’m standing before him, and I move in to kiss, but he stops me and mutters, “Wait.”
He’s holding something tiny pinched between his finger and thumb. He runs his free fingers along the inside of my forearm, and I exhale shakily at his caress. His fingers continue past the tender bend of my elbow, up to my shoulder, my neck, my jaw, my lips.
“Open.” He whispers and I comply.
He places a small square of paper on my tongue and I smile, knowingly. He shows his own hit to me and I giggle.
Finally, his hands are on me, strong and hot, pulling me close.
Now is That Moment. My favorite moment of all. Those milliseconds before lips meet lips.
His eyes glow with flecks of gold and green in the brown, his heavy lids nearly close as he focuses on my mouth.
He licks his lips like he had onstage, and he grins greedily, hungrily . Yes. This. Now.
Soft and strong, warm and wet, his kisses taste like orange.
His mouth leaves mine only to lead me to the couch. He pulls me down to him, I straddle his lap.
We are face to face, heat to heat.
His lashes shade his face once more as he looks at my body as if it were a new instrument to play. I kiss his cheekbones, taste the salt of his skin.
I kiss his jaw, his chin. I kiss a warm, wet trail, cooling it with my breath, until I reach that tender morsel of earlobe. I take it in my mouth. I graze it with my teeth.
With a groan he lifts me, turns and shifts until he is above me. I cannot blink, cannot look away as he tears off his shirt, slides out of his jeans.
My eyes take in the sight of him, ready and needy as I slip out of my dress. The silk falls, pools on the floor like molten wax.
We are skin to skin, heart to heart.
I close my eyes and succumb.