Twist Of Fate

Thirty Six

CHLOE

I have imagined this moment more times than I care to admit. I have imagined his taste; I have imagined the smell of his skin up close; I have imagined how his lips would feel against mine. I have imagined hearing the beat of his heart; I have imagined the scratch of stubble on my chin from the few hours of growth on his face. But nothing I ever imagined could have prepared me for the real thing.

He is soft. He is warm. He is safe, despite being the danger. His lips touch mine with surprising gentleness, given his harsh, brash exterior. His breath tickles my cheek as he opens his mouth and his tongue brushes mine, his hands cupping my face and holding me still, ensuring I could not escape even if I wanted to.

I don't want to. I want nothing more than this, forever. 

He tastes of alcohol; of one too many beers and possibly a chaser of some sort - whiskey perhaps? Yet his movements are fluid and controlled, and deliberate. He isn't drunk, and if I was feeling tipsy before I am certainly as sober as a judge right now. 

His hands drop from my face to my waist, pulling me towards him and scrunching the fabric of my dress in his fists as he breathes hard into my mouth. I have never been kissed like this before, with such passion, such carnal desire. I feel wanted, I feel needed. I feel like I can do anything I set my mind to, such is the power of this kiss. 

And then his right hand moves from my waist, sliding slowly up my body to my ribcage. My stomach turns over sharply, and my body stiffens as he pauses for a moment, before extending his fingertips a couple of inches higher and running them gently over my breast. It feels good, but fear is preventing me from enjoying it. An involuntary gasp has left my lips, and he seems to take this as encouragement and repeats the motion, lingering a little longer over my nipple this time and then squeezing me gently.

I am frozen to the spot, torn between pushing him away from me as hard as I can and pulling him closer. A victim of my own naiveté, I never expected him to touch me like this. I don't know what to say or do, and I don't know if I want this. Yet at the same time I crave it, and I don't know what I will do if he stops.

I let him continue kissing me, my mind racing at a hundred miles an hour, chased by fear. His left hand also leaves my waist, this time to drop to the hem of my skirt where his fingertips skate delicately over the bare skin of my thigh. This is definitely too far, and I pull away with a jerk, breaking contact and taking a deep breath, my insides trembling with nerves. His hands stop moving, and he surveys at me intently. The look alone is enough to melt my bones like butter. 

I am afraid to tell him to stop; afraid of him laughing at me, or yelling at me for leading him on. I want to kiss him, I want him to hold me close to him, but I'm scared of letting him do anything else. 

He leans towards me to kiss me again and I turn my face up to him, craving the taste of his lips. I reach up to cup the back of his neck with both of my hands, desperate to run my fingertips over the smooth skin where his curls lie. His palms rest back on my hips for a few seconds, squeezing me gently. And then before I can stop him he is lifting the hem of my dress up, sliding it up my body to my shoulders, and slipping it over my head. It falls to the floor, leaving me standing in front of him in just my underwear, consumed with embarrassment at being exposed like this. My mouth won't work to tell him to stop, and my body won't move to retrieve my dress. I can do nothing but stand here in front of him, almost naked, while his hands gently stroke my stomach and slip down my thighs again. Tears are pricking the backs of my eyes. I feel vulnerable, and cornered.

I need to tell him to stop. I need to tell him this is not ok, that this is going too fast, that I don't want this to happen. But instead I open my mouth to let his tongue slide against mine, and I put up no resistance as his fingers tease the top of my knickers. One of his hands finds my breast again, kneading it delicately and swiping the pad of his thumb a couple of times across my nipple through my bra. Despite my fear I am beginning to ache between my legs. I am torn between letting him take this a bit further, and screaming at him to stop.