His thumb moves. A slow drag across the skin below my ear, tracing the line of my jaw, and the touch is so specific and so intentional that my breath stutters and my lips part and I feel the cold air on my tongue.
He doesn't ask. He doesn't hesitate. He lowers his head and his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is not gentle. It's not rough either. It's needy. His lips press against mine with the same focus he gives everything, the full weight of his attention concentrated on the place where his mouth meets mine, and the feeling of it goes through me from my lips to my chest to the base of my spine. His hand tightens on my jaw, tilting my head back further, opening the angle, and his other hand comes up and grips my hip, the size of his palm spans from my hip bone to the small of my back and he pulls me forward.
My body hits his chest, and the height difference is absurd and I don't care. I'm on my toes, my hands on his jacket, fisting the fabric, pulling myself up into him, and his mouth opens against mine, his tongue slides past my lips and the taste of him is coffee and heat and burning desire and I want more of it.
He groans. The sound comes from somewhere deep in his chest and I feel it more than hear it, a vibration that travels from his body into mine through every point of contact. His hand on my jaw. His hand on my hip. His chest against mine. His mouth on my mouth.
Fuck, I need more. So much more.
I make a sound back. Not a moan, not quite, it’s caught between a gasp and a noise I don't recognize coming out of my own throat. His hand tightens on my hip in response, and he pulls me closer, impossibly closer, and I can feel him through his jeans and through my work pants and he's hard and the realization hits me in the stomach and between my legs at the same time.
My back hits the door. He walked me into it. One step, maybe two, and I didn't feel us move because his mouth was on mine and his hands were on my body. The door is behind me now and he's in front of me and the cold is gone because his body is a furnace and he is everywhere.
His mouth leaves mine and drops to my neck, just below my ear, right where his thumb was, right on the freckle, and the sound I make is loud enough that if anyone on this street is awake they just heard it and Idon't give a fuck.
"Inside," I’m breathless, and it comes out almost a squeak. "Come inside."
He pulls back, just an inch. His forehead against mine, his breathing hard, his chest heaving against me. His hand is still on my jaw, and on my hip and we're pressed together against my door, and I can feel his heartbeat through his jacket, it's fast, hammering, the heartbeat of a man whose body is running on something his brain hasn't approved.
"No."
"Come inside, Carmelo."
He looks at me. Gray eyes, close enough that I can see the striations in his irises. His jaw flexes under my hand, because my hand is on his face now,when did I put my hand on his face, my palm on his jaw, feeling the muscle work under his skin. His stubble is rough against my fingers. His face fills my entire field of vision.
He shakes his head.
"Why?"
"Because if I come inside right now, I'm not leaving until morning. If ever."
The sentence hits me in my chest and detonates. My body clenches. My fingers dig into the fabric of his jacket, pulling, andmy hips press forward against his. His breath catches and his hand on my hip tightens hard enough that I'll have bruises and Iwantthe bruises. I want the proof that this is happening on my skin tomorrow.
"So don't leave then," I say.
He closes his eyes, his brows furrows. He exhales through his nose, long and controlled, the exhale of a man who is holding himself back with everything he has and the everything is running out.
"Not tonight," he says.
"Why?"
"Because I need you to know who I am first."
His eyes are open again, on mine, and there's something in them I haven't seen before. Not urgency this time. Not desire, although the desire is there, I can feel it against my stomach, hard and impossible to ignore. This is guilt. Or fear. Or a version of honesty that costs him something to hold.
I don't understand it. I don't know what he means bywho I am. I know his name. I know his hands. I know his mouth on mine and his body against mine and the sound he makes when he groans into a kiss and the way his heartbeat pounds when he pulls me close.
What else is there?
I let go of his jacket. My hand slides off his jaw. He steps back. One step. The cold rushes between us and my body screams at the loss of his heat.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay."
We stand there. Him on the sidewalk, me against the door. Both of us not knowing what the fuck this is, or what it means, just that it exists because there’ssomethingbetween us that defies rational thought. His hands are at his sides and his fists are clenched, his knuckles are white and I can see the effort it's taking him to stay where he is, to not close the distance, to not push me through the door and onto the bed and take what I'm offering.