Read Online Intrusion by Charlotte Stein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Stein
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overanalyzing eyes, as though Iâm an alien sent from Mars who doesnât know how to interact with human beings.
So I consider something biggerâlike hugging. Hugging seems much more normal and traditional in this sort of situation, and yet when I start imagining the whole thing it kind of falls apart. I would have to put my arms under his arms and around his body. My breasts might brush his chest. My nipples might brush his chest. He could very well react by freezing into a statue of himself, which seems way worse than just making curious eyes at me.
Is it any wonder that I settle on a handshake? Sticking out one trembling clenched fist is easy, by comparison. And for a second, he even responds as though he understands and thinks this is appropriate. His doesnât laugh at my barely unfurled fingers or refuse in some other embarrassing way. His hand reaches for mine, without question.
And then stops about an inch from me.
Oh Christ, why is he stopping an inch from me? No, please no , I think, as his hand draws back toward the relative safety of his body. But that hand keeps going. I follow its progress with something like bitterness, doing my best to be okay with that and utterly failing on every level. Is that really where we have to draw the line? Not even a handshake?
I must have misread the incident in the cinema. He probably had an itch to scratch, and I was just a convenient tool. How else to explain this? Or what he tells me next?
âIâm sorry, I should have been clearer,â he says, but really he doesnât have to. He was perfectly clear. He said no sexual contact, and a handshake apparently counts. I should respect thatâI do respect that, I swear. I can respect it, no matter how much my heart sinks or my eyes sting at a rejection that isnât a rejection at all.
I can do without. Iâm sure I can do without, all the way up to the point where he says words that make my heart soar up, up toward the sun that shines right out of him.
âKissing is perfectly okay with me,â he murmurs, and then, oh God, then he takes my face in his two good hands, roughened by all the patient and careful fixing he does and so tender I could cry, and starts to lean down to me. Slowly at first, and in these hesitant bursts that nearly make my heart explode, before finally, Lord; finally, yes, finally.
He closes that gap between us.
His lips press to mine, so soft I can barely feel them. Yet somehow, I feel them everywhere. That closemouthed bit of pressure tingles outward from that one place, all the way down to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my toes. I think my hair stands on end, and when he pulls away it doesnât go back down again.
No part of me will ever go back down again. I feel dazed in the aftermath, cast adrift on a sensation that shouldnât have happened. For a long moment I can only stand there in stunned silence, sort of afraid to open my eyes in case the spell is broken.
But I neednât have worriedâhe doesnât break it. His expression is just like mine when I finally dare to look, full of shivering wonder at the idea that something so small could be so powerful. We barely touched and yet everything is suddenly different. My body is alight. I think his body is alight.
How else to explain the hand he suddenly pushes into my hair? Or the way he pulls me to him? He does it like someone lost at sea, finally seeing something he can grab on to. His hand nearly makes a fist in my insane curls, and when he kisses me this time there is absolutely nothing chaste about it. Nothing cautious.
His mouth slants over mine, hot and wet and so incredibly urgent. The pressure this time is almost bruising, and after a second I could swear I feel his tongue. Just a flicker of it, sliding over mine. Barely anything really, but enough to stun me with sensation. I thought my reaction in the movie theater was intense.
Apparently thereâs another level
So I consider something biggerâlike hugging. Hugging seems much more normal and traditional in this sort of situation, and yet when I start imagining the whole thing it kind of falls apart. I would have to put my arms under his arms and around his body. My breasts might brush his chest. My nipples might brush his chest. He could very well react by freezing into a statue of himself, which seems way worse than just making curious eyes at me.
Is it any wonder that I settle on a handshake? Sticking out one trembling clenched fist is easy, by comparison. And for a second, he even responds as though he understands and thinks this is appropriate. His doesnât laugh at my barely unfurled fingers or refuse in some other embarrassing way. His hand reaches for mine, without question.
And then stops about an inch from me.
Oh Christ, why is he stopping an inch from me? No, please no , I think, as his hand draws back toward the relative safety of his body. But that hand keeps going. I follow its progress with something like bitterness, doing my best to be okay with that and utterly failing on every level. Is that really where we have to draw the line? Not even a handshake?
I must have misread the incident in the cinema. He probably had an itch to scratch, and I was just a convenient tool. How else to explain this? Or what he tells me next?
âIâm sorry, I should have been clearer,â he says, but really he doesnât have to. He was perfectly clear. He said no sexual contact, and a handshake apparently counts. I should respect thatâI do respect that, I swear. I can respect it, no matter how much my heart sinks or my eyes sting at a rejection that isnât a rejection at all.
I can do without. Iâm sure I can do without, all the way up to the point where he says words that make my heart soar up, up toward the sun that shines right out of him.
âKissing is perfectly okay with me,â he murmurs, and then, oh God, then he takes my face in his two good hands, roughened by all the patient and careful fixing he does and so tender I could cry, and starts to lean down to me. Slowly at first, and in these hesitant bursts that nearly make my heart explode, before finally, Lord; finally, yes, finally.
He closes that gap between us.
His lips press to mine, so soft I can barely feel them. Yet somehow, I feel them everywhere. That closemouthed bit of pressure tingles outward from that one place, all the way down to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my toes. I think my hair stands on end, and when he pulls away it doesnât go back down again.
No part of me will ever go back down again. I feel dazed in the aftermath, cast adrift on a sensation that shouldnât have happened. For a long moment I can only stand there in stunned silence, sort of afraid to open my eyes in case the spell is broken.
But I neednât have worriedâhe doesnât break it. His expression is just like mine when I finally dare to look, full of shivering wonder at the idea that something so small could be so powerful. We barely touched and yet everything is suddenly different. My body is alight. I think his body is alight.
How else to explain the hand he suddenly pushes into my hair? Or the way he pulls me to him? He does it like someone lost at sea, finally seeing something he can grab on to. His hand nearly makes a fist in my insane curls, and when he kisses me this time there is absolutely nothing chaste about it. Nothing cautious.
His mouth slants over mine, hot and wet and so incredibly urgent. The pressure this time is almost bruising, and after a second I could swear I feel his tongue. Just a flicker of it, sliding over mine. Barely anything really, but enough to stun me with sensation. I thought my reaction in the movie theater was intense.
Apparently thereâs another level
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