Part two of the series on Kyle.
Despite my best intentions (see previous entry), it was my bedroom Kyle showed up in at the end of the night. He had text messaged me a few hours after the party ended, asking after my whereabouts before eventually stopping by. At this point, I was still determined to pair him up with an appropriate gal pal. Since we hit it off earlier, I thought a late-night conversation might let me better gauge compatibility. Besides, my night had been uneventful save for our colorful meeting and I was always up for entertaining company in the wee hours of morn.
But the second he walked in the door, reason walked out. More acquaintance than friend (and even a stretch at that), he could hardly be trusted to confine to boundaries I took for granted around platonic male friends. And judging from his suggestive behavior earlier that evening, I had an inkling of what he was after. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure if having a cocky, horny sweet-talker sitting on my bed was the best start to my matchmaking scheme.
I suspected that he was interested, but I thought that he must have known better than to pursue a girl who was involved with his friend. Yet Kyle was the sort of guy who kept his eyes on the prize even if the prize had already been claimed. To be fair, my involvement was never exclusive, though it was certainly intimate enough to test the strength of fraternity (as both of us would later learn). In the heat of the moment, it wasn’t as if friendship really mattered. Obligation came second to curiosity — the player largely responsible for our mutual undoing.
Sitting across the room from him (all seven feet’s worth of room), there wasn’t much mischief that we could brew up with verbal banter alone. But once I made the (seemingly) logical transition onto the bed, my head made the less logical transition onto his arm, and with that went all self-restraint. Pretty soon, we were playing the do-we-or-don’t-we game, our lips just short of touching with hot breath on expectant tongues, our hands roaming over cotton and pressing hard for the skin beneath.
Hardly any less in the wrong than he was, I asked teasingly, “Didn’t you get the memo that I am very much off-limits?” Without pause he replied, “That just made me want you more.”
Who was I to protest against a man who was both deliciously impudent and disarmingly confident? I decided then that if we weren’t to have sex (surely too grave an offense considering circumstances), something just as titillating would have to be in order. As I wrapped a leg around his waist and pulled him closer, I smirked and whispered, “I’m not going to kiss you.”
It was the one line I wasn’t willing to cross.
“But there are other things we can do.”