Love, Lust 'n Geology (2ND DRAFT)

Scene 2.1

Tom doesn't take Samina in far, just enough that they're hidden from the cool, silver spotlight of the moon, full and bright and high up in the sky, and from the warm, yellow glow of the single lamppost in the parking lot. He takes hold of both her hands and brings her round so that her back is against a tree, the size of its trunk impressive.

His thumbs graze her knuckles, tracing their contours, then draw leisurely circles around each one. His touch is feather-light, in contrast to the way he held her while dancing. Despite that, or maybe because of it, each brush of his thumb sends an arrow through her, its tip delivering a ping of pleasure on impact. He must be an expert archer. They all find her bull's-eye.

Too nervous to look up at Tom, too overwhelmed to do anything, really, Samina stands frozen, the only difference between her and a statue her rapid blinking and the heaving of her chest.

She stares straight ahead at the curtain of Tom's shirt. It's about a foot from her nose. In the darkness, its bright red colour has turned deep crimson. The black squares across it bob up and down. Maybe Tom is breathing harder than he was while dancing, but not nearly as hard as she is. If she isn't hyperventilating, she's about to.

Tom's voice rivals a bass instrument. "I really like you, Samina," it vibrates.

Her mouth drops open. The Polite Indian pinches her to reciprocate. She whispers to his shirt while taking shallow breaths, "I like you ... too, ... Tom." She's relieved she didn't call him Wolverine or, just as bad, tell him she's been a fan of his for years.

And I don't just like you because you look like Wolverine, she wants to add. Although you do. Or because you're gorgeous. Although you are. I like you because you're smart. And curious, like me. And generous—he bought the pitcher of beer for her and the drink for Red.

"Mind if I take this off?" he murmurs, tugging at the strap of her purse which is hanging round her neck. She shakes her head, keeping her eyes down.

Tom removes her purse and slides it to the ground. His shirt shifts closer. She catches a whiff of it. Her nostrils flare, inhaling his scent. His breath is warm against her hair. The gentle press of his thumbs on her hands makes her look up. Her eyes meet his. She's taken aback by their transformation. They're no longer topaz, but gleaming gray diamonds. Beautiful. Like before. Capturing her. Like before. But not like before: gateways to an unfamiliar world, one full of dark promise, beckoning her to explore it with him with a pull as natural, as powerful as gravity.

His eyes flit down. He studies her lips. She his, crimson now, like his shirt. Seeing the delicate curve of his lips, close-up, their ripe fullness, she feels a pang. His beauty hurts. She watches as his lips draw nearer. Her eyes flutter closed.

He kisses her softly, his lips kneading hers. Their gentle pressure makes her head fall back. Soft, warm, ... delicious. She wants more. Her arms circle his neck. She pushes herself up on tiptoe, pulls herself closer to him, wanting more.

Gripping her waist, he traces the line of her lips with the tip of his tongue. It isn't at all gross, like when she saw Red do it. Her lips naturally part. He slips his tongue into her mouth. The sensation is electric, like nothing she's ever felt before. She moans. His breathing is now audible, like hers.

His tongue begins innocently enough — if two tongues touching can be called innocent. It introduces itself to hers with little licks, like her tongue's an ice cream cone and he's testing the flavour. Hers is too shy to reciprocate. This doesn't seem to faze his, which moves quickly from, So nice to meet you, to, Now that we've got the introductions out of the way, let's get down to business. The licking progresses to rapid flicking and circling. And thrusting. Deep. Repeated. Thrusting.