Did that just happen?
I don't know how the night got here. How we got here.
We never talked about it. Never acknowledged it.
But now, she's pressed against me, her body fitting against mine with deliberate slowness, like she's testing the limits of what we can get away with. Like she's waiting for me to snap.
And I want to. God, I want to...
The night started like any other. Just two friends catching up. That's it.
Erin is in a relationship, anyway. That train left the station before I even knew I wanted to be on it.
I take the stairs to her second-floor apartment, knock, and brace myself.
When Erin opens the door, it takes me a second to remember why I came. She was stunningly beautiful. Quite a few inches shorter than me, she was both tiny and beautiful.
She's standing there in an oversized sweatshirt and I'm guessing shorts that are hidden I'm under her sweater, nothing but thin fabric between her and temptation. She's barefoot, her hazel eyes flicking over me with quiet amusement, lips curving in a knowing smirk.
"Hey, you," I say, pulling her in for a hug.
She melts into it--warm, soft, lingering. My hand slides down her back before I realize I'm letting it.
We talk. We drink. I ask about her relationship, and hope she's happy. He's moving here in a few weeks, she says, but for now, it's just her and the dog.
We toast to good company, and at some point, she puts on The Office.
She stretches out on the couch, curling beneath a blanket, legs tucked up. I relax into my corner of the couch, sipping my drink, but it doesn't take long before she starts shifting. Her feet kick against my thigh, teasing, light.
I grab her by the ankle, trying to stop her from using me as a damn soccer ball. But instead of pulling away, she lets me keep them there.
Bad idea.
My fingers settle around her bare ankles, holding them in place.
One episode turns into two. My hand drifts. I start kneading my thumbs into her foot, working slow circles through the sock.
She doesn't pull away.
Doesn't even acknowledge it at first--just keeps watching, biting her lip, shifting slightly as I dig in deeper. Every now and then, she makes this small noise--halfway between a sigh and a hum--that makes my blood throb hotter.
I should stop. I should stop.
But I don't.
When the episode ends, she throws off the blanket and stands, stretching.
I panic.
What the fuck am I doing?
Friends don't do this. Do they?
She disappears into the bathroom, and I tell myself I'll keep my hands to myself when she gets back.
Then she returns. And when she settles back down--her socks are off.
She stretches out again, resting her feet on my lap, and there's no mistaking the shift in the air now.
It's charged.
Unspoken.
A slow, lingering question neither of us wants to be the first to answer.
I don't touch her. Not yet.
I just keep drinking. Watching. Waiting.
Then she moves.
