It’s a fleeting moment of conscious thought. ‘Should I go there?’ you wonder. Sure, you have your rules. They’re good rules, too. You should pull back, shouldn’t you?
To hell with it. Not tonight.
You’re tripping on the tips of his shiny black leather loafers, scuffing them in the process. Oh well.
He’s kissing you. Not your lips; you. You fit in his arms like the last piece in a puzzle. Perfect.
His body crashes into the back of your front door with a ‘thud.’ He bites his bottom lip; smiles sheepishly. His eyes find yours and they’re bright; almost apologetic. Despite his best efforts, it’s the sexiest thing he’s done all night. Damn.
He pulls you in again. Maybe that’s the sexiest thing he’s done all night? You’re losing track. You’re losing yourself, too.
He’s undressed you but you haven’t removed a layer.
Somehow your keys find their way into your hand, into the lock. You’re frantic; eager. There’s no guilt. No remnant of second-guesses. You’re inside your house now, the door slamming behind you from the force of your heel. You kick them off.
Now you have removed a layer.
He presses the small of your back with one hand; gently cups the back of your head with the other. He eases you to the floor. A softer surface would’ve been ideal, but the hardwoods in your entrance way will do. It’s that kind of night? It’s that kind of night.