Music pounds, the metallic beat surging through her young body like an electric shock. Her gestures aren't calculated, they move with the roils of the baseline easily. He watches her dance, a smile creeping on to his flawless face. He marvels at the way she doesn't edit herself. She just moves.
His body against hers brings surprise and confusion. Why is he touching her? What does he want?
A finger grazes her hip and she realizes what he is after. She is lucky, he has chosen her tonight. Their bodies grind with indeterminable closeness for two people who have barely met. Her cheeks grow hot at the idea of who is touching her.
A tentative hand reaches up to brush his face, feeling the rough stubble on his skin. Warm breath in her ear, ridden with what feels like a question. The answer lingers for several moments as she searches around, looking to see if anyone has noticed the boy and girl currently falling together. She sees pretty girls like herself, twisting and contorting, bending down low and pressing up against their youthful partners in the throws of passion and alcohol-induced lust. None of the boys look like the one so close to her own face; the others are positively ordinary. Why in the world has he picked her, when he could have had anyone?
She doesn't ponder this for long. She has never been one to look before she leaps, taking each opportunity in stride and jumping on any possibility based on impulse.
His lips taste like a fascinating mixture of desire, marijuana, and mystery. The rebellious combination fuels her and she turns to face him, feeling his muscle-gnarled arms snake around her waist. She falls into him, feeling her body melt instantly into a puddle of wax at his feet. Their mouths connect, searching for something, grasping on to every moment as if it was the last. Hands grasp her tightly, feeling her lithe form contort with passion beneath his fingers.
Lips on her neck tear at her skin, but she shudders with pleasure rather then pain. Soft hands caress her shoulders as envious female eyes shoot daggers at her from every angle.
How did it happen so fast? One minute they were shaking hands, the next ravaging eachothers' bodies, and then walking away fully satisfied. Before she knows it, the next day has arrived. The only evidence of last night's filmy dream are the harsh red marks on her neck.
Why can't she stop thinking about him? What makes him any different from any of the boys she drunkenly latches onto under the cloak of darkness and summer revelry? Maybe it's that olive skin, the sharp jaw, the soft curly hair. Or was it something more?
Her mind reels, jumping from one memorable fling to the next. She is so confused, unable to determine who or what she truly wants. She probably will never see him again. He barely said two words.
"Does it really matter?" He murmured in her ear, in response to some question of hers, probably addressing where her friend was. Her lips curl into a grin against his. "No." Her whisper is soft, her tone gentle. "No, it really doesn't."