T here's a gentle breeze cooling off the pleasantly warm night in the square. The wind delicately plays with the ends of your hair, exposing your bare shoulders to the moonlight.
You just walked out of that little Italian restaurant, full from capellini and conversation. After flirting during class, he'll usually wink and bid adieu. But tonight, he takes your hand and smiles at you. He glances towards the white bus pulling up, but he knows better than to take you on that ghetto jail bus they're trying to pass off as the Joey. Squeezing his hand softly, you leisurely begin the walk back to campus.
At dinner, you discussed the mission and a half it is to get from Olin to Bromfield in 10 minutes while lugging a laptop and latte. But you aren't trying to get anywhere fast now. Finding an intelligent, articulate, non-awkward guy at Tufts certainly doesn't happen every day. And someone who appreciates your Ali Larter-like ferocity and Natalie Portman sense of class rarely attends Tufts either.
You've already learned the essentials about him: He grew up on Long Island, his lab's name was Leonardo (obviously after the best Ninja Turtle), he got nine stitches from a fierce third-grade baseball game, and he's terrified of spiders. You briefed him on your passion for Shakespeare, love of H?¤agen Dazs Light Vanilla Bean ice cream, religious cardio regimen and phenomenal infatuation with Ari Gold.
You've caught him staring at you in English class so many times. He's been looking at you all night, too, dreamy and evocative. Sauntering down the street, hands swinging with each step, he curls you into an embrace. That clean-boy smell is so sexy: like a Ralph Lauren model mixed with Christian Bale ? la "American Psycho."
He pulls you in close, a closeness worthy of immediate interference from middle school teachers at a dance. But pleased by his initiative, you meet his gaze and bat your lashes - very Audrey Hepburn. He leans in to kiss your lips, but you avoid his mouth and the kiss falls on your cheekbone. A cascade of mini-kisses spills down the length of your neck, sparking tingles up your spine.
His fingertips dance across your collarbone, over your shoulder, down to the small of your back, strong and soft. You're lost somewhere between lust, admiration and intrigue. Finding your way back to sanity, to consciousness - to campus, even - is hardly a concern.
Compose yourself. Pull away.
He follows your steps, like a puppy trailing the steamy scent of supper. Glance back at him, a few paces behind, and lead him wherever you want - you're in charge. Remind him that patience is a virtue.
Your dorm is within sight, and you are faced with quite the predicament: let him in or leave him out?
For the briefest moment, a fervent flurry of bare limbs, discarded clothing, heavy breaths and palpable passion flashes through your mind, alluring and yet insensible.
The space between the two of you has steadily decreased in the past few seconds. Rather, the space that was between you is now completely evaporated, and warm hands are clasped around your waist.
Soft scruff along his chin is grazing your cheek, scratching your lips. You breathe in his scent: masculine, sultry. Pushing against his strong body, you can feel his lust intensifying at your touch. You deliberately press harder, looking up at him with longing and obligatory sensibility.
He tastes like mint and chocolate: sweet, fresh and cold. The pillowy softness of his lips feels like kissing marshmallows. How wonderful if you could just melt into him, like hot fudge tumbling down a mountain of ice cream, mixing into a pond of sugary soup.
But like any delicious dessert, a first kiss should always leave you wanting more.
