Blaze

Forty; James

She smells like mint, but she tastes like cinnamon. I gasp in surprise at the unexpected but pleasant sensation on my tongue, sweet but fiery, like the woman herself. I'm holding the sides of her face, her delicate, sharp cheekbones resting in the palms of my hands. My lips are pressed against hers and my tongue inhabits her mouth, but still I'm not close enough.

I surge forward, pulling her toward me while simultaneously walking
her backwards, until she's pressed against the edge of the sink flush against me, her lush curves melding into my hard edges. I moan into her mouth at the feeling of her soft breasts pressed against my upper abdomen. She no doubt feels a certain body part of my own stirring against her abdomen, anything but soft.

She should pull away. She has to be the one to pull away. I am physically incapable of tearing my mouth off hers. I have dreamed about this, obsessed about this exact moment, for months. Now that I've had a sample, I don't think I have the strength to stop this. I wonder how far she'll let me take this and groan at the thought. She does the exact opposite of pulling away.

She pushes further up on her tiptoes and leans her weight into me, the slight movement creating an almost unbearable friction. Her fingers tug the curls at the nape of my neck as she sucks on my tongue and draws me in, deeper, harder.

All the blood in my body seems to pool below my belt, making it impossible to think, only act. My hands leave her face, but only so I can drag them down her body. One hand glides over her ribs and over the generous swell of her hips. I slide my other hand from the nape of her neck down the naked curve of her spine. Her skin is hot beneath my fingertips, but a shiver traces my touch.

Her phone chimes from somewhere over her shoulder, breaking the spell we are both under. We still, and she slowly pulls her mouth from mine, but stays in my arms, pressed against me. I'm grateful, I don't think my nervous system could withstand the shock of losing her mouth and body at the same time.

After a beat, she lowers her heels and reaches up toward her face, her slender fingers dancing lightly across her full bottom lip, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her chest heaves, her breaths still coming in shallow and sporadic. Her eyes never leave mine; the same heat and attraction I feel deep in my gut is reflected back in her grayish-blue pools.

Her phone chimes again, and her expression changes in an instant. It's as if a curtain falls over her eyes, lust replaced with, what? Shame? Guilt?

"Oh God," she whispers, her voice trembling. She takes a step back, out of my arms. "My boyfriend."

Guilt it is.

I look her over, her disheveled appearance evidence of our sin. Her hair is a tangled mess, half hanging down her back and the other half looped through a rubber band at the nape of her neck. Her lips are swollen and her pink lipstick is smeared  at the bottom right corner of her mouth. I glance at my own wild eyes and wrinkled shirt in the mirror behind her, and internally curse at myself for my own lack of control. She's still pressed against the sink, trapped against my body. Jesus, I mauled my intern in the fucking bathroom. What is wrong with me?

I take a step back through the narrow doorway as I run a shaky hand through my hair, removing myself from the small space, and she squeezes past me.

She glances at her phone screen, hangs her head, and sighs. It's him, I know it.

"James," she exhales. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have." She glances back down at her phone and absentmindedly strokes her bottom lip. "What kind of person does that?" Her voice cracks and tears pool in her eyes. She regrets kissing me, but worse, I made her feel bad about herself. The tears spill over her lower lashes.