Anticipation

We sit too close at the rooftop bar, our chairs angled inward like they’ve been conspiring with us all evening. You’re sipping something herbal and clear, and I’m still nursing a ridiculous cocktail in a curved glass that’s sweating against my palm. The air is warm this high up, thick with late sunlight and the scent of citrus and city. But all I can smell is you.

We’ve barely touched our food. A few bites of something sharp and creamy, passed between fingers and forks. I fed you one from my hand and watched you take it with your eyes locked on mine, lips closing slow, tongue flicking the tip of my finger just before you pulled away. You knew what you were doing.

Now, you’re leaned in, your thigh resting against mine, not tentative. Your fingers tease the inside seam of my jeans, light as a murmur. I can’t remember what we’re talking about, only how close your mouth is to my ear, how often your breath touches my neck when you laugh.

You glance at the time, then at me. No words, just that look. The one that says “now”.

We stand. I settle my hand low on your back as we walk to the lift, and you press into it, just slightly, like you’re already imagining how I’ll hold you once we’re alone. The hallway is long, cool, golden. I hit the button with more force than I need to. You lean into the mirrored wall beside the lift, one foot hooked behind the other, letting me look. Letting me want.

The doors open, and we step in. Empty.

The second they slide shut, your hands are in my shirt, on my skin, my belt. Mine are at your waist, under your blouse, sliding over your ribs. You taste like mint and gin and heat. Our mouths crash… wet, hungry, all tongue and teeth and breathless sounds. You make this tiny noise when I bite your lower lip, and I feel it all the way down.

You press me back against the mirrored wall, your knee between my legs, grinding up just enough to make my breath stutter. I grip your hips, pull you closer, let you feel what you’re doing to me. You moan into my mouth—quiet, feral. It sounds like a promise.

The lift dings past floor after floor, too fast and not fast enough. You drag your mouth along my jaw, down my throat, then kiss me again like you’re trying to stake a claim. I’m hard. You know. You press into it.

“Room,” you whisper against my lips, “now.”

The doors open. We pause for one last look—our reflections wrecked and wanting.

Then your hand finds mine and we walk fast, silent, already trembling with what we’ve barely started.