The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

It's all my fault. I had to go and touch what I thought was the fluffiest looking head of hair I've ever seen. It's been that red button staring back at me for weeks, and I finally pushed it. I want to blame the Margarita I had, but I can't. I knew what I was doing, and I knew that as soon as I started, I wouldn't be able to stop because it is one hundred percent just as fluffy as it looks. Especially, once I weeded out the little gel Jack put in it.

The beautiful mess I made with his hair reflected in his eyes as his lids drooped down, and the only way to look at the world was through the filter of his lashes. For a second, I thought I ruined everything. I thought I finally turned Jack into another typicality—another check in the box of night club rituals. Especially when my back presses against the wall in his apartment, and the cool metal of his belt buckle presses into my stomach as I nod along in sync to every nudge of his lips, which are also one hundred percent just as soft as they look.

His fingers coil their way between mine, and he pushes them back beside our heads, but then he freezes and slowly withdraws his lips. He lets our hands fall down from the wall but keeps my right hand in his grasp. My rings glint in the dim streetlight peeking in through the window on the far side of the room. Two of them are stacked over my right hand ring finger, one is on my left hand middle finger, and the last is wrapped around my left thumb.

Jack curls his fingers around each of them and gently pulls them off. One by one they each are placed on the shelf beside our heads.

Once he's finished, his belt buckle presses back up against my stomach and my hands tangle themselves back in his hair. I don't know how much time passes before I gently push at his chest, and we stumble on into his room.

My hands go at it again. This time tugging at the real buttons of his shirt until it falls onto the hardwood floor. My shirt is next but before my back can hit the bed, Jack traces the line of my necklace to the back of my neck and undoes the clasp. He holds it up in front of me. The silver pendant sways a little like an old pendulum clock before he places it gently on the wooden dresser next to the door. His smile is all goofy and lopsided on the way back, and he kisses me with it as we both fall back on the bed.

Our hands have been the only form of communication these last few hours. A little pull here, and a little tug there.

But Jack's fingers feather and linger over the lace of my bralette. "Is this . . ." He trails off as he leans back to look at my face. "Okay?"

I sit up in the space he provides and lift my arms. "Yes."

And then his lips manage to find my own personal button on the side of my neck. Neither of us seem to come up for air for a while, but we're floating rather than drowning. Just like when we were dancing, I momentarily forget where I end and where he begins until his hands hesitate again over the button of my jeans.

"Is this"—his chest expands on an inhale—"okay?"

"Yes." I nod, and my back curls as a shiver runs down my spine.

It doesn't take long for us to finally be aligned again like we were on the dance floor. Chest to chest. Face to face.

Jack's eyebrows curl together as he tries to hold my gaze in the dark. "Okay?"

My chest expands as I hold my breath. "Yes."

His warmth falls all over me as his groan falls in my ear, "f*ck yes."