It was never supposed to be like this with him. He was supposed to be simple, a friend, a brother, mainly just someone entirely non-sexual. I barely even took notice of him the night we met, immediately dismissing him as bland. The second night we met things seemed more normal, we were both drunk and talkative, we spoke of a mutual love of photography and music. But that third night, he walked into the room like a man on a mission.
I should have known from the second that comment flew from his sober lips. My legs he said, they were sexy… huh? Did I hear that right? Laughter and drinks were poured, friends flowed in and out, every time I turned he was almost always at my side. Neither of us drank as much as usual, and every time he caught my eyes it was like he was looking deep inside me. Stupidly I brought him back to my apartment. I didn’t have conscious intentions, not wanting to complicate my life further, but somehow I think we both knew.
There was talking and giggling, sharing of music until the sun was coming up and finally when I looked over my shoulder and our lips were just inches apart and our eyes were locked, there was no stopping it. He kissed me like his lips had been waiting to taste mine and his hands touched me like they wanted to learn every curve of my body. We kissed for hours and every time I felt his lips separate from my skin and looked up into his eyes, I’d catch a sly smile playing on his lips before he came back to mine.
I woke up a few hours later to find my fingers interlocked with his and our legs completely intertwined with his face nuzzled into my neck and immediately cuddled in tighter and fell back asleep. That’s what killed me. I don’t sleep like that, ever. I can’t it drives me nuts. But there I was, sound asleep in the arms of a boy I didn’t even have sex with. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I would kill for a repeat performance. Move heaven & earth if I could. But I can’t. He isn’t mine and won’t be. He belongs to someone else. Like always.