Allison
The wine is burning in my chest, and the sun is burning into my skin, and the events of the past couple of hours are still burning into my mind, but all of this pales in comparison to Rust’s lips burning into my lips, his chest burning into my hands as I clutch at his leather. I blame it on the alcohol; I blame it on the romance novels; I blame it on the fear and adrenaline from having survived. We stumble backward, entangled, deep into the alleyway where he pushes my back up against the wall. I can feel his passion, hot, explosive, moving from him into me.
I push my lips into his, hardly thinking about what I’m doing, just feeling the pleasure of it. His lips are clean-shaven, and moist, and a perfect fit for mine. He opens his mouth slightly, a tempting opening, and I thrust my tongue into him; perhaps overeager, for my tongue brushes his teeth. But that adds to the pleasure somehow, as though we are too horny to even wait for both our mouths to be open. He opens his mouth all the way and the tips of our tongues clash. Nerves buzz, sending electric jolts of pleasure down my tongue and around my mouth, a cocktail of pleasure moving around my head.
I dig my fingernails into his leather jacket, wishing I could tear the jacket away and reveal the muscle beneath. I ride that thought, thinking what it would be like to rip the jacket off and show the bursting muscle beneath, the massive pectorals and the hard-packed abs. The kiss deepens as I think about it, and Rust reaches down and grabs my ass, one strong hand gripping me so hard I can envision my skin turning red. My whole body feels as though the skin is turning red: burning beneath the surface.
I move my hands down his jacket, smoothing my hands over the leather, meaning to go down to the front of his jeans. My fingers have just moved to the coldness of his belt buckle when I realize what I’m doing.
I am aggressively making out with a man, about to go further with a man, in public. Not only that, but I do not know this man. I only met this man a few hours ago. Sure, he saved me from those bikers, but that doesn’t mean I owe him anything. That doesn’t mean I should just throw away my reason, my sensibilities. I would never normally do this, but that is why it’s exciting, isn’t it? But just because it’s exciting, it doesn’t mean I should do it. What about the consequences?
For a few more minutes, we kiss, but my hands do not stray further than his belt buckle, and soon I feel myself disconnecting from the situation, the physical sensations feeling as though they come from very far away. My inner voice of reason explains to me, in prissy yet reasonable tones, that this is a mistake. I do not know this man; we are outside. Somebody from work might see me, and then where will I be?
My hand moves up to his leather again, but this time instead of clawing I lay my palm flat against him and push softly. He keeps kissing, moaning through our lips, and for another moment I sink back into the kiss. But then I lean back and push his chest again. “No,” I say, pulling away. “I don’t—no.”
He pauses, watching me closely, but not stepping away just yet. His face is tinged slightly red, but nowhere near as red as mine feels. I get the sense that he’s looking at me to judge if I really mean it. Those black eyes are penetrating. I say: “I mean it, Rust. I’m going to call a cab.”
He watches me for another moment, and then shrugs. “Alright, sweetheart.” He steps away.
We stand apart in the alleyway. I glance around: overturned trash cans, spilling condoms and rotting banana peels and soda cans onto the concrete; grimy, graffiti-covered walls; a rat scurrying across the ground, tail whipping behind it. And I was about to have sex here—here, where, if you glance street-wise, you can see a few people walking to and fro at the mouth of the alleyway.
“I’m going now,” I say, looking into Rust’s face, waiting for him to protest.
That is what most men would do now, I’m sure. They’d try and persuade me to stay, try and reason me back into passion, not knowing that you can never use reason to make a woman feel that burning desire, even if she felt it moments before. But he doesn’t do that. He just watches me, that cocky smile on his lips, not appearing to care one way or the other.
“Alright,” he says, after a long pause. “Do you want a ride, or—”
“I’ll call a cab,” I say. I know that if I agree to a ride, I’ll be tempted to kiss him again, and in the confines of my car—or worse still, my apartment—I know where that kiss would lead. And even if it would be pleasurable, it would also be a mistake. I don’t know him, I’m not that sort of girl, I don’t owe him anything, it just doesn’t feel right…
I stop, realizing I’m trying to convince myself, and then make for the mouth of the alleyway. Rust follows me a moment later, waiting as I call for the cab, and then stuffs his hands in the pocket of his leather and turns away. “I’ll see you around, Allison,” he says, that same knowing smile on his face.
I nod, and then mutter, “See you around, Rust.”
I watch him go, hands in his pockets, swaggering, a man without a care in the world. I wonder for a second if I made a mistake, but I tell myself I’m doing the right thing, that I’m too tipsy to make that decision right this second anyhow.