by Jo Watson
He suddenly slowed everything down.
His face became serious.
His black eyes dark and broody.
Then one by one, and very, very slowly, he undid his shirt buttons. He looked directly at the audience this time; a wicked, naughty-boy look glinted in his eyes. I buried my face in my hands again, all I could think about was how I was about to see his penis. But Mark was on it.
“Eyes to the front, this is the good part.”
Damian’s movements were slower, more fluid, and highly seductive now. He pulled one of his shirtsleeves down and a surprisingly muscular shoulder slid out. And then another one and then the shirt dropped to the floor and…
A collective gasp of appreciation rose up from the crowd.
They were all silent for a moment; I think it was awe and wonder.
He was lean and ripped and chiseled and muscled and lined in all the right places. Who knew that hiding under those dirty, ironic T-shirts was such a perfect male torso? His most striking feature, by far, were those two lines that went straight from his sides down into his pants. The hot lights were making him sweat just enough that his body was moist and slightly glistening.
My heart started to pound, and my breath kept getting stuck in the back of my throat. I’d never felt like such a blatant perv before. I reached for the champagne and took a sip in a desperate attempt to rehydrate my dry mouth and distract myself. I felt a little dizzy looking at him. And the dizziness only escalated when I remembered holding hands with him and the way he had looked at me. Damian ran his hand through his hair and his six-pack responded by tightening and rippling; this only accentuated those two defined lines that ran all the way down to his…I was officially a pervert.
At this point, the crowd was going ballistic; the mania had built to a fever pitch. But then Damian’s mood changed to playful again as he reached for the button on his pants and started teasing the audience, until a collective “Take it off, Take it off” rose up from the crowd. I felt another elbow and another whisper.
“You can tell he’s dirty in bed. That guy would give you a good spanking if he could!”
The mere suggestion of Damian in bed was enough to make me wiggle in my seat. I swallowed hard as the button was undone and the zipper slid down. He taunted the audience a little longer before dropping his pants to reveal a rather silly pair of boxer shorts.
Another roar of laughter rose up and, as if it had been rehearsed, men began pulling out their wallets and hurling wads of cash at him. If ever a strip show could be described as funny, sweet, sexy, and silly, this would be it. The song was coming to an end and I assumed the show would, too, but for me it was only just beginning.
The house lights flicked on, illuminating the room, and I saw that Damian was looking directly at me. I must have flushed the color of a fire truck and looked as coy as a toddler trying to get out of trouble. I averted my eyes and my eyelashes fluttered. Yes they did, they bloody fluttered, and they had a mind of their own. There was no controlling them.
He smiled at me, standing there in nothing but his boxer shorts.
And then he moved toward me…
Oh please, oh please do not let this be happening.
Too late. Damian had jumped off the stage, and he suddenly appeared at my table. The crowd went mad and Mark jumped up and down like a possessed teenage girl at a One Direction concert. There was no way I was going to be dragged onto that stage; I would rather die!
Famous last thoughts. I dug my heels in to resist. I held on to the chair and I begged and pleaded, but Damian was too strong. He pulled me all the way through the now-standing, clapping men and onto the stage.
“Please don’t do this. Please,” I begged Damian, but alas, I was completely ignored.
Instead he swung me around as if we were doing the tango and then dramatically dipped me until the world was the wrong way up. The song had ended by now, and I saw the upside-down figure of Mark stand up and shout.
“Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Oh, holy crap.
“Kiss her. Kiss her, kiss her!” He chanted and clapped until the rest of the club joined in. Damian pulled me up. We were face-to-face now. My body was pressed against his, and I was acutely aware that he was practically naked. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Well, you heard the men.”
I was simultaneously excited and panic-stricken. Earlier we’d shared that brief lip brush, but it was nothing like this. He was going to kiss me, right there, right then, in front of all those people. He took my face between his hands and looked at me for what seemed like forever. I wished I knew what he was thinking.
“Kiss her, bloody hell!” Mark’s shrill voice pierced through the chanting.
He leaned forward, and I closed my eyes.
I waited to feel his lips.
The chanting in the club seemed to fade away into the distance.
All I could hear was Damian’s breathing, just inches from my face.
His lips finally touched mine, and I felt a flame of red-hot fire lick my spine.
They were soft.
Gentle.
Tender.
He let his still lips linger for a few seconds, before lightly planting another soft kiss on mine.
My lips parted slightly and I let out an involuntary breathy whimper, which I wished I hadn’t.
The tips of our noses touched.
I felt him run his hand through my hair and around the back of my neck.
He pulled me a little closer; you couldn’t have gotten a sheet of paper between us if you tried.
His other hand dropped down and I felt it slink around my waist.
I let out another breathy whimper. (God, I wished I hadn’t.)
He pressed his lips against mine again and my legs went weak. I’d never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my entire life.
His lips parted ever so slightly and he gently kissed my bottom lip. The tip of his tongue came out and met mine. I gasped and opened my mouth for him. My control was slipping and I didn’t care. The kiss deepened and sped up, becoming almost frantic as his hands tightened around me and he pulled me even closer and then…
And then he let go of me.
Completely.
Took a step back.
The spell was broken.
The bubble had popped.
I was giddy and confused and looked at Damian. He had the strangest look on his face now.
Regret?
“I’m sorry, Lilly. I should never have done that.” His voice was deeply apologetic.
Why was he sorry for kissing me?
I felt my heart crack a little.
I wasn’t sorry. That was the best kiss of my entire life.
Chapter Twelve
When I was six, I was the only girl in my class who didn’t get a Valentine’s gift. I’d started at yet another new school, because my mother had moved us halfway across the country to be with her yoga instructor, an old white guy named Abhijat (try to pronounce it, I dare you). He was a freak, and my mother forced me to do his morning yoga classes, where he said things like:
“Breathe in through your toenails and out through your ears, Lilly.”
“Imagine your buttocks are flowers, Lilly, blossoming in the spring.”
“Your spine is a rainbow and it wants to be outside in the rain, Lilly. Release it. Set it free. Let it fly.”
A week before Valentine’s Day, the boys’ craft teacher had them make gifts for the girls. It was very sweet—one of the boys made a heart from bent paper clips and someone else made a necklace with bottle tops. Come Valentine’s Day, they whipped out their respective creations, brimming with pride and accomplishment, and handed them over.
But they’d forgotten about me—yes, I was new, but it still hurt. I remember standing there among the sea of shiny crafty things feeling like no one cared about me. It was so embarrassing, and I didn’t want anyone to notice, so I snuck outside and hid in the playground.
And that’s how I felt
right now as I stood outside the club.
It hurt that Damian regretted kissing me. It was the sharp pain of rejection, mingling with the sting of embarrassment, mixing with the dull ache of disappointment that took me right back to being that little girl who’d climbed into the colorful tunnel and cried softly to herself.
I felt pathetic. But I was also angry with myself for letting it get this far. I was clearly vulnerable and this was no time to open myself up to anyone, certainly not to Damian. And I didn’t even like him…did I? Whatever feelings I thought I had for him were obviously of the rebound ilk. I couldn’t afford to go there, not with Damian, not with anyone. No, what I really needed right now was to close all the doors and windows, bolt the shutters, throw away the key, and retreat into a padded cell for my own safety.
I felt so alone and was overcome—once again—with a need to spy on Michael. I took out my phone and realized that it was flooded with messages: Mom, Dad, Val, Jane, Annie, and even Stormy (which is odd because she is suspicious of cell phones). I flicked through them quickly, not really absorbing much, although I did see that Stormy had cast a spell on Michael and with any luck, she said, he should have genital warts within a day or so.
I logged on to Facebook and was about to go to Michael’s page when I saw I had a friend request. I clicked. Damien Bishop.
Damien with an E. I’d spelled his name incorrectly. My heart conveniently forgot that it was meant to be on lockdown and I accepted his request, went straight to his page, and opened his photos (as one does).
And there he was. Beautiful Damien with an E. I got this strange feeling as I scrolled through his pictures. It was a feeling of familiarity—as if I was looking at photos of my oldest and dearest friend. But then I stopped. All the blood that usually pumped around my body drained out of me in one fast whoosh.
A photo caught my eye. It was of Damien, happy, smiling Damien, with his arm around a hot chick. Did I mention she was super hot? She looked like his type, too: She was petite and her dark hair was cut into a severe bob with dead-straight bangs.
She had huge blue eyes and was dressed in black skinny jeans and a casual T-shirt with a Barbie doll print. Is there a shop somewhere that sells ironic T-shirts to cool people? I kept scrolling and she kept making more and more appearances. Yep, there they were in London together; yep, that’s them in front of the Eiffel Tower; and yep, that looks like them having lots of fun at some party somewhere. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Damien might have a girlfriend…or two?
My mouth fell open as I flipped through more pictures and another girl appeared. She was equally gorgeous, and her undeniable coolness intimidated me all the way through the phone screen. She had long, blond hair with blue tips. She wore bright colors and cute Gangnam-style clothing. The three of them were hanging on to one another as if they had all been surgically attached. Then I saw a picture that actually made me feel physically ill. A selfie. All of them. In bed. Together.
Suddenly, I felt cheated on. Damien was cheating on me with some hot, skinny hipster chicks. They were probably cool, but in that I so don’t care what’s cool kind of way. They were probably fun and rebellious and had tattoos and nipple rings. They probably tattooed each other as foreplay. They probably didn’t even need to read Fifty Shades of Grey; they’d moved on from whips and ties years ago and were doing something that hadn’t even been invented yet.
Clearly they were having wild, hot, loud threesomes while hanging upside down like vampire bats and listening to obscure bands that made pretentious ukulele music on vinyl. I continued to scroll through the pictures, and they were everywhere. Wearing more ironic T-shirts, big black-framed glasses, and strange vintage shoes that might have been worn by a vagrant, but with the addition of knitted laces made from reclaimed wool, the look went from homeless to hipster.
But the photo that grated me the most was the one of dark-haired hipster chick lying on the beach wearing a yellow polka-dot bikini, ironically. She had one of those thin, wispy ballet bodies and you just knew she’d probably Instagrammed a photo of herself eating some kind of fattening vegan treat just minutes previously.
I was so jealous of her!
The door swung open and Damien stepped out. I jumped as if I’d just been caught doing something naughty, which I had been—I was cyberstalking his hot girlfriends. I had this sudden mad urge to confront him about his infidelity, but then sanity slapped me in the face. I turned the phone off quickly and slipped it back into my bag. After the painful sting of my public humiliation, the only reason I was still there, standing outside the club waiting for him, was that I didn’t want to attempt escaping the red-light district alone—who knew what could happen? If it hadn’t been for that, I would have been long gone by now.
But instead of walking straight up to me, he stopped and started typing on his phone. Sending someone a message? My first thought was that he was texting his cool girlfriends. I felt so unbelievably jealous I could scream.
“Do you think you can help me get back to my hotel?” My statement was curt and I deliberately avoided eye contact.
“Sure,” he said, striding out into the road, barely looking at me while he continued to type away. There was definitely a weird vibe between us now. Gone was the comfortable familiarity of the lunch we’d shared earlier.
Damien finally finished his sexting and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He kept walking and I followed him closely, watching him walk. I wish I hadn’t seen him half-naked, because now I knew what lay beneath those clothes and this had only ignited a full-blown war in my head. My primitive reptilian brain was waging a fierce war against my logical self, fighting for control. Images of a shirtless Damien flooded my mind, and then some kind of superhero avatar of myself jumped in and beat him away. This went on and on until I felt positively exhausted. I tried to focus on something else, so I looked around.
There was a mangy, flea-bitten cat with half a tail scrounging in a dustbin to my left, a group of sexy women to my right. We walked past a giant red flashing light that said GIRLS and past a group of drunk, stumbling guys.
“Hey, baby.” I heard a whistle followed by a shout and turned around. One of the drunken guys had changed direction and was veering toward me, so I quickly put my head down and sped up.
“Hey, hey, baby. Don’t run from me.” I could almost smell the alcohol, even though he was still a few feet away.
Damien stopped walking and swung around. He wasted no time in grabbing me by the arm and pulling me behind him with such force that it actually hurt.
“Is there a problem here?” His tone was menacing, and I’d never heard it before. It clearly took the guy by surprise, too, because he held his hands up in resignation.
“No problem, bro. Just trying to say hello to a beautiful lady. No crime in that.”
“Well, don’t.” Damien glared at him and took an intimidating stride forward. The man stepped back.
“Hey, buddy, no worries. No harm meant.” The drunken guy turned and stumbled away, but Damien carried on standing there, staring after him. I walked around and looked at him. He had a terrifyingly dangerous look on his face. His eyes were squeezed together into thin black slits, and his face had contorted into a look that could kill. I shivered. Damien definitely had a dangerous streak, that’s for sure.
“Come.” Damien sounded forceful. He grabbed my shopping bags, took me by the hand, and yanked me hard. I resisted and pulled away. This hand-holding thing had to stop. Now!
“What are you doing?”
“I’m more than capable of carrying my own bags and walking alone without you holding my hand,” I said as indignantly as I possibly could.
“I’m sure you are, but I’d rather you didn’t. If you hadn’t noticed, we’re not exactly in the most kosher part of town. Come.” Again, his hand came for me.
I pushed it away. “No!”
“Do I need to pick you up and throw you over my shoulder?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Why do you even care?” I started walking again, striding ahead as fast as my short legs would take me.
Damien caught up to me quickly and grabbed me by the elbow. “What are you talking about, Lilly? Of course I care. I’m not going to let some drunken guy take advantage of you.”
This was killing me. I couldn’t bear to look at him and focused all my attention on a little puddle by my foot instead. “Please just get me back to my hotel.”
There was another one of those awkward moments, and I heard Damien fill it with a loud sigh.
“Do we need to talk about the kiss?” His tone was calmer and even though I wasn’t looking directly at him, I could tell his demeanor had changed, too.
“No,” I said, trying to put on a brave face. “You made it perfectly clear that you regretted it and wished it hadn’t happened.”
“You think I wished it didn’t happen?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got it so wrong, Lilly. I don’t regret kissing you. I could never regret kissing you. It was…” He paused. “It was…” I looked up at him now and could see he was struggling to find the word. I could offer him a few: nice, great, amazing, hot?
He continued without finishing his sentence, but the implication was there. “And you’re beautiful, but…” Our eyes met. “I just didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you. I know you’re hurting…” He took a deep breath and paused for a moment. “That’s why I’m sorry it happened. Not because I didn’t enjoy it or want it. Because I really did. Enjoy it and want it.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This moment couldn’t be more perfect if I’d written the script myself. I was about to let him know that I, too, had enjoyed it, and I, too, had wanted to do it and that I would very much like to do it again, when…
