A sound comes out of me. Small. From somewhere I don’t have a name for. My forehead presses into the curve of his neck and I breathe him in and I can’t think. I should pull away. I should step back and say goodnight and go upstairs. I should do all of those things and instead I am pressing closer, my fingers curling into his shirt, my nose against his throat where his pulse is jumping.
The song ends. The speakers go quiet. The garden lights click off, one by one, until the only light is the bar’s dim amber glow and the moon through the window.
We stop moving.
We don’t step apart.
His hand moves from my back to my jaw. Slow. His fingers tracing the line of my neck on the way up, leaving heat behind them like a trail of lit matches. His thumb settles on my cheekbone. He tilts my face up.
