You Must Be the One

Purple- Creativity III

It's somewhere between This is a bad idea and What are you doing? that it dawns upon her that consequences be damned. She doesn't care.

When her romantic life was in shambles and she knew (they both did) that the end of her engagement was inevitable, there was depletion; physically and emotional. There was just nothing left and her self-worth, further complicated by being unable to compose a song, was at an all time low.

As impulsive of a decision as this is, as split second as this is, it also feels very, very fucking right. In an inexplicable way, no rhyme or reason, but right all the same.

Bradley's lips move from hers down to her neck, and she braces herself against him, arms supporting her weight on either side of the piano bench as her head tips back to give him full access.

Damn, he's an excellent kisser and it's been so long since she's been kissed, been touched by someone like this, that she's melting into it.

"You're gonna leave a mark," she cautions breathlessly.

It's no real warning and he fucking knows it.

"Do you want me to?"

His question is directed into the hollow of her throat and she leans up to grab his face, look into his eyes. "Yeah, actually."

His grin is fast and he brings his head down again to nip along her clavicle. It isn't hard enough to hurt, but with the good amount of pressure, she can already feel a bruise beginning to form.

He balms the redness with some tender kisses, unable, she thinks, to be anything but sweet, and her chest feels heavy.

"Hey," Bradley sits up, his fingers still threaded through her hair. "Are you okay? We don't have to, if it's too fast."

"No, no, it's not that. I want you." Her bold assertion doesn't mince words and that's fine, because neither does she. 

"Oh, God, I want you, too," he says earnestly.

"I haven't been treated like this in a very long time. Like someone cared."

She doesn't have a moment to feel self-conscious because he's kissing her again, more gently this time, cupping her cheeks in those strong hands.

"I haven't felt like this about anyone in a long time," he admits quietly when they break away. "Like we've known each other for years. That kind of connection. Not a line, by the way," he clarifies with a smile. His thumb moves up and down the apple of her cheek.

"Didn't think so. I feel it, too. It's so fucking weird, isn't it? How you could just have met someone but it doesn't feel remotely like that."

"Guess I should be thankful I'm stuck, huh," he runs a hand over the top of his head. "Then I wouldn't have gotten to know you. Not here, anyway."

"Best part of this weekend," she agrees. She takes his hand, folding it in hers before she stretches up to kiss him. "Second best part."

His mouth against hers is good, it's good and even better so when they're on the floor, on the soft blanket and she's on top of him, his hands working to remove her t-shirt while his lips press to her neck.

"Wait," she husks out, feeling very much like a teenager sneaking around, "do you have... I'm on the pill."

He nods, lifting her up to fish for his wallet. "Don't laugh."

Her eyes shine. "Not laughing. You're prepared. Nothing wrong with that."

"Hoped you'd see it that way," Bradley grins again, his eyes crinkling.