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This was your third date. That evening, Zeke had taken you out to a small restaurant downtown, where you were warmly welcomed by the waiters. Even the chef came out of the kitchen at some point to greet you and shake Zeke’s hand. It’d been such a nice night, a warm and friendly atmosphere all around you. He was playful, you knew that, but you discovered he had this caring, delicate interest in everything around him, his eyes glimmering at everything you’d said.
This whole thing between you two started a month ago, with impromptu encounters at the photocopier and silly whispered gossips, or cigarettes shared under your umbrella when he forgot his upstairs, in his office. Then it was random coffees appearing on your desk after breaks, sometimes accompanied by sticky notes with impeccable handwriting; it was long silent glances exchanged during meetings, awakening absurd laughter from you - and then one evening, he asked you out for a drink. You were simply colleagues after all, and after an evening out, even with drinks shared with an odd complicity, it could have ended there.
It was getting late, and you missed the last bus, so naturally, Zeke offered to walk you home. You told him it wasn't necessary, but he insisted. You both had been drinking wine all night long, so he left his car parked on the street outside of the restaurant. You didn't live far away anyway.
There was something mesmerizing about the way he carried himself, that slow, proud way of walking. His shoulder was brushing against yours as you walked through the empty streets, the cool breeze of the night making his flaxen hair dance on his forehead. He was so easy to talk to, about everything, always having a witty word to say, compliments casually thrown your way; a smile on his lips and eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Well…" you said with a smile as you climbed on the small stone step, in front of the big wooden door of your building. The street was silent and deserted, and as it was late, you spoke softly.
"Thanks for tonight, Zeke. If you keep this up, I think I'm going to get used to it."
You heard him chuckle at your comment. Gently, he reached for your hands, grabbing at your fingers as he started stroking your skin with his thumbs.
“I have to tell you something,” he began, his body moving closer to yours. You could feel the warmth emanating from him. He cleared his throat, as if he were about to recite a speech. “I don't want you to think that I do all of that for...”
You wanted to pay attention to what he was saying, but the way he kept eyeing at your lips disconcerted you greatly, expecting at any moment his lips on yours. Instead, he talked. He was closer to you than he had been all evening, your eyes leveling with his, so close, and all he had to do was to lean toward you. You knew he wanted it too, because he kept on glancing down at your mouth, before quickly coming back to your eyes. He did it, once, twice, three times. It was ridiculous, he could have kissed you already, and you would have taken him upstairs to have another glass of wine. And kiss him some more. Four times. You just wished he would stop talking and use this pretty mouth of his in another way. But he kept on talking when all you wanted was that-
“... I guess what I’m trying to say is that I really like you.”
You looked at each other for a moment, the words echoing between you. Well, that was a development. He almost looked like a teenager, being all serious and self-conscious, and you couldn’t help but find it cute. He was awfully cute for someone who spent his evening acting all confident in front of you.
"Okay," you finally said, seeing his forehead furrow at your lack of response. He was looking quite confused, not knowing what to make of your reaction.
“Hell, I really, really like you… and I, I just don’t want us to rush things.”
It was getting ridiculous. You’d been flirting for weeks and you couldn't take it anymore. You growled between your teeth, releasing your hands from his to cup his face, your lips crashing against his. You wanted more, and he was just trying to be his insufferable self. He laughed softly against your mouth, his lips lingering against yours as he caught one of your wrists between his slender fingers.
"And what was that for?" he whispered.
You frowned, drawing little circles with your thumbs on his beard, "You didn't think you could say things like that and expect me to keep my mouth still?"
The twinkle that’d been in his eyes all evening long was gone and replaced by something different, something scorching, something eager. Your wrist held tight in his hand, he climbed up the step on which you were perched. His head moved towards yours, and you saw his eyes slightly closing as he tilted his head toward you.
The next moment, his mouth was back against yours, deep breath taken against your skin. You felt his hand running up on the skin of your wrist, caressing the fingers staying against his cheek, as the other curled up on your lower back. You were soon pressed against the large door behind you as your bodies pushed against each other in an almost abrupt movement. You smiled at the sense of relief engulfing you, at the feeling that he wanted it as much as you did. There were no more witty words, only hands and lips and shared breaths.
“Zeke,” you moaned against his lips.
“Yeah?” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth.
“I happen to have some really nice books upstairs...”
“Oh yeah?” he laughed, his breath lingering on your lips.
“Yeah, they are... very old...and charming…”
You slid your forearms against his broad shoulders, pulling him even closer to you. His lips found the skin of your jaw, leaving a tingling sensation from his beard, setting every inch of you on fire.
"And... I have this vinyl, and it’s still shrink-wrapped so I thought... Maybe you'd want to come upstairs and help me with...," you paused, closing your eyes as he reached down to kiss your neck, his hands playing with the hem of your shirt, "We can take it slow if you really want to, and read books and-"
"And I can help you take the plastic off your vinyl? That's tempting..." he whispered, smirking against your throat.
"Yeah, I know..."
He suddenly took a step back, tearing himself away from your warmth. Even behind his foggy glasses, you could see the way he was staring at you, at your face in the darkness of the doorway, devouring you with his eyes. He said, looking serious again, "I'm serious about the whole-"
“Not rushing things? Yeah, I figured, but we are literally making out in the street, so…”
You ran a hand through his blonde hair, gently caressing his temple. “I’ve whiskey too. And ice. In the freezer.”
He groaned, quickly filling the distance between you, resting his forehead against your shoulder, breathing out, "Not fair..."
You laughed softly, interlocking your fingers with his, but he stepped back again, down the small step this time. His cheeks were flushed, his hair now a mess.
“Whose vinyl is it?” he asked, genuine smile spread across his face.
“The Smiths.”
“Urgh...”
You laughed, straightening up from against the door, “And what’s that supposed to mean, now.”
“Well, I’m more of a The Cure guy, you see…”
"And why don't you come upstairs to moan about my music taste?” His hands held tighter to yours. This time it was you who leant in, leaving a chaste kiss on his lips, and he just stood there, at your mercy, heavy lidded eyes transfixed on you.
It was his choice after all, and the last thing you wanted was to scare him off by rushing him into anything; you had an incredible evening, perhaps one of the best date of your life, and you even managed to get a few kisses out of him. But this was turning into a stolen and unsure make out session, and you could almost feel him struggling with his own thoughts. Sure, you wanted more, but you first and foremost wanted him. Not rushing things just meant being patient, didn't it?
Bubbles of excitement popped in your stomach as you felt him respond languidly to your kiss, even though you could feel he was stiffer than the moment before. Maybe it was time to stop insisting. Putting a gentle last kiss on his bottom lip, breath lingering on his mouth, you took a step back, watching him reopen his eyes as you reached into your jacket pocket, pulling out your keys.
"Since you're not coming up with me, I'm going to go to sleep," you breathed softly, gently stroking the skin of his hand. He didn’t try to pull away though, watching you do so, a look of confusion spread across his face.
“Good night, Zeke.”
The key slid into the lock, and you pushed the heavy door open with a shove, stepping into the hall, but your body was held back, your hands still locked. He stood immobile outside, his feet solidly fixed on the ground.
You smiled at the realization that he wasn’t going to let go of your hand. The way he stood sheepishly in your building doorway made you conceal a laugh, and you tried to pull your hand free from his grasp. He was looking at you, conflicted and you heard him whisper "wait" as he grabbed your wrist with his other hand.
"I thought you were eager to go home!" you said, feeling the giggles trying to escape from your mouth. You jerked your hand for him to let go of you, but he suddenly followed the movement, stepping into the hall with you, taking advantage of the impulse to throw himself back on your lips.
The violent yet tender touch of his body against yours made you lose your balance backwards and, in the rush of the action, you both found yourselves propelled against the mailboxes along the narrow hallway, a loud thud echoing up the staircase. He laughed softly against your mouth and you waved him to silence, shushing against his face, one of your hands trying to press against his mouth, his body still so warm against yours. It was an old building, full of equally old inhabitants and it was so late. You'd rather have died than have the concierge peek out of her apartment to find you making out in the hallway. The front door closed softly behind you, the last glimmers of light from the street disappearing, leaving you into darkness.
You felt his hands slide down your thighs and suddenly, with a little grunt, he lifted you up, making you hook your legs around his waist. Behind you, the mailboxes rattled against your back. His name slipped out from your mouth in an attempt to tell him off, but his lips were already on yours, resuming their breathless dance.
He moaned softly as you ran your hand through his hair, grabbing flaxen strands between your fingers. He felt so good, against you, in the crook of your arms, his smell so familiar and filling your senses. If it had been up to you, you would have taken him home on that first date.
He pulled you out of the mailboxes, starting to head for the stairs. He was holding you so tightly against him, and you began to laugh as you imagined him trying to carry you all the way up to your apartment. He reached the second floor, and you chuckled as quietly as possible against his face. One of your legs slid from his grasp, your foot now onto the floor. The movement caused him to lose his balance, resulting in a loud bang against the second-floor door. The concierge door. You gasped, both of you now motionless. He understood immediately when he saw your face, slowly straightening up. You were a mess of limbs, one of your thighs still held by his large hand, his forearm pressed on your back as you head was against the door, your arms around his shoulders. You slightly tried to turn around, putting your ear against the door. The wood was cold. Inside, silence. You let out a sigh of relief. But as you were about to face him again, telling him to shush and let go of you, you heard a sound of footsteps. The rattling of a bunch of keys.
"Okay, Zeke now you run." you said out loud. No time to pay attention, you had to escape before she could even see you.
You grabbed his hand, climbing the spiral staircase two at a time, and felt him take over, laughing. You heard the door to the first floor fly open, the concierge appearing in the light of her apartment, wrapped in her robe. Despite your rush, she leaned over the railing, and your name rang out on the landing as she identified you, the sound of her raspy voice going up the stairs and ricocheting off the walls. Perfect, you thought, so now the whole building was awake.
You heard her threaten to call your landlord, but the two of you were already disappearing in the upper floors. The door slammed, silence and darkness falling on the staircase. You stopped for a moment, trying to catch your breath.
"What have we done?" Zeke said under his breath, leaning against the wall.
"We woke up the demon, that's what we did. All because you didn't take the elevator."
"Wait what, there's an elevator?"
You tried to laugh at the scowl on his face, but your breath was too short, and you were almost struggling to breathe. That breath, you thought, had been way too short ever since you walked into your building. Zeke reached up to you, arms sliding around your waist as he nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin. Between giggles, he placed a kiss behind your ear.
"Are The Smiths still far away?" he asked, pulling you against him.
You probably never walked up the stairs to your apartment so quickly in your entire life. The few remaining steps flew by under your feet, your key in the lock, pulling him inside, the door slamming behind you.
When you turned around, ready to get back to where you stopped, something felt different. He was standing in the clumsiest way by the door, looking at you, clearly waiting for something. His hair was ridiculously ruffled, his cheeks flushed by the race, perhaps by something else.
The mere contrast between the confident man from an hour ago, almost posing, and the man standing in your doorway was screamingly funny, but you said nothing. You had worked too hard for him to stand there.
He was looking at your place with curious eyes, lingering on the books in the bookcase, on the pictures framed on the wall. You took his hand as you walked into the living room, throwing your jackets on the couch.
“It’s nice,” he said, quietly. You smiled at the carefree compliment, eyeing at his chest heaving with the rhythm of his breathing. You wanted to put some distance between you two, just for a moment, to retain some restraint, to prove to yourself that you weren't so needy. You wanted to offer him a glass of water, maybe some wine. The whiskey that coaxed him so well earlier. You could have put some music, detached yourself from him, from his scent, from his warmth. But all you could think about was his hand in yours, and how big and wide they were, how he grabbed you and carried you over a few feets. How these hands would feel in your hair, how they would fit so well on your body.
Then you approached, pretending to flatten the collar of his shirt and his eyes returned to you, his interest for the decorated walls of your apartment suddenly dropping. You slid your hands flat on his chest, feeling his warmth against the palm of your hands. Your eyes indulged into his. You wondered if the eager look in his eyes was back, or if it had ever left him. The excitement of running up the stairs, of getting out of the concierge's field of vision as quickly as possible, had taken over from the carnal desires from a few minutes before. But it was most certainly there, in his eyes. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. His eyes were transfixed on you, waiting for a sign.
"So, where do you want to start?” you said, playfully, “as promised, I've here charming old books... a vinyl you told me you hated..."
"How cruel of me," he said with a smirk. He grabbed you by the hips, pulling you closer to him, eyeing your lips.
“You’re just very rude, but I got used to it, don’t worry.”
“You better stop flirting with me.” He faked a sulking pout.
“How am I even flirting with you?” you answered, chuckling, your hands cupping his cheeks.
“You got used to me being an ass, and now you find it cute. How’s that not flirting?”
It put the biggest grin on your face. You’d been openly flirting with him for weeks, and you knew he knew it. You even wondered if he was truly interested at some point, if it wasn’t for the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
In a delicate movement, you grabbed on one of the arms of his glasses, pulling them off his nose. You placed a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. He repeated, quieter this time, a smile in his voice, “and how is that not flirting?”
“I’m glad you finally noticed.”
“Well,” he said, his lips caressing yours, without pulling you into a kiss, just for the sake to feel them stick to each other, “and what other activities do you have to offer?”
"Mmh," you pretended to think, not picking up on his daring allusion, "I guess we still have the whiskey drinking, Mr. let's-not-rush-things."
He merely grunted his disapproval, his lips sliding against your jaw.
“Is that a yes for a whiskey on the rocks?" you asked, busying your hands over his shoulders, massaging the nape of his neck, pulling out small groans from him. You felt his finger running up your back, slightly grabbing and pinching your skin.
"I think I'll start with a whiskey. No ice. Maybe later..."