S.M. ✦ Gin & Juice

VI.

Your ears wouldn't stop ringing. When Shawn's lips pressed against yours, the moment blocked out sound and light and all you could do was feel his soft mouth molding itself to you. At first, you were terrified, shocked by his action, but when he curved his arm around your back, pressing you against him, your muscles yielded to him, melting against his chest.

Sharply inhaling through your nose, you moved your lips against his, tilting your head and opening for him. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, rolling his tongue along the seam. You moaned, starving for physical contact, and threaded your fingers in his chocolate curls. Pulling him infinitesimally closer, you curled your body around his, wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to the contours of his clothed body.

You'd been avoiding contact with others for so long—touching no one physically or emotionally—that this kiss felt like a tidal wave crashing into your body. It was overwhelming. He was overwhelming. His hands ran up and down your back in an intoxicating motion, edging to the hem of your shirt and running his rough hands along the bare skin just above your jeans.

He was all you could smell, all you could touch, all you could taste. Notes from his cologne, bergamot and leather, filled your nose and when his tongue massaged yours, you could taste the Jack Daniels still lingering in the back of his throat. It was a heady combination. You fingered the hair at the nape of his neck, obsessed with the short curling ringlets there, making him shiver and pull his mouth away from yours.

Breathing heavy, his eyes were glassy when he laid his palm against your cheek. You'd never been this close to his face. He had a notched scar on the right side of his mouth, like a dimple he'd cut there himself. His skin was smooth, tanned from all the hours in the sun, and he had just a hint of stubble. Tilting your head in awe, he closed his eyes as you ran your hand over them and across his face, his long lashes tickling your palm. He inhaled through his nose and bent his head, resting the crown against your chest.

"Where did you come from?" he breathed, a soft prayer on your body's altar. You weren't sure if you were supposed to hear it at all. Resting your cheek atop his head, the same question floated in your head, wondering how in the world you had gotten here from a spilled beer and a bottle of gin.

The moment was quiet and the exhaustion from the stress of the evening was pressing on you. A yawn escaped your lips. His silent laughter vibrated against your chest. He looked up at you, that trademark blinding smile plastered on his face, and wrapped his arms around your middle. He maneuvered the two of you off the floor, somehow keeping your legs wrapped around him, and walked you to his king-size bed.

"Are you okay with me staying here tonight?" you asked, a blush creeping onto your cheeks. He set you down on the edge of the bed and walked over to his dresser. Rummaging through one of the drawers, he hid his face from you when he said, "it's no problem."

When he turned around with a t-shirt in his hand long enough to be a dress, you saw that his face was touched with pink as well. The two of you looked like blushing idiots. "Do you want to change into this? It'll be more comfortable than your jeans."

You took the shirt from him and walked into his adjoining bathroom. Closing the door, leaned against the counter, gripping it with white knuckles, and stared at your reflection. What just happened? Now that you weren't touching him, all of those anxious feelings returned, hitting you like a runaway freight train.

You took a cleansing breath and reviewed recent events. When you got his drunk texts, the level of dread that washed over you was incapacitating. The idea of him drinking and drinking and drinking, of emptying another gin bottle, was vivid in your mind. What if he spent another night passed out in the bathroom? What if he didn't wake up? What if no one was there to find him? You were the only one who knew how bad it could get. The only one who knew that the blackout wasn't a side effect of having a good time; the blackout was a craving, a high so potent for him that he chased it. So, you ran to him. When you got here, things happened so fast that, by the time he was attached to your face, it seemed like the night was always supposed to end this way—with you in his bed.