The party was in the other room a loud, perfumed chaos of laughter and clinking glasses. I’d slipped out onto the cold, concrete balcony for air, shivering slightly in the February night.
That’s where I found him.
Or rather, where he was already found, a shadow leaning against the railing, a curl of smoke from his cigarette the only sign of life. Izzy. He didn’t turn, but I knew he’d heard me. He heard everything.
“Too much?” he asked, his voice a low, dry rasp that cut through the distant noise. It wasn’t really a question.
“A bit,” I admitted, stepping up to the railing beside him, not too close. He offered the cigarette. I shook my head. A ghost of a smile touched his lips before he took another drag.
He was always like this. A still point in a turning world. In a room of peacocks, he was the watchful cat in the corner, seeing it all, saying nothing. The quiet was different with him. It wasn’t empty; it was full of unplayed riffs and thoughts he’d never voice.
“Happy Valentine’s,” I said into the quiet, the words feeling silly the moment they left my mouth.
He let out a soft, airy chuckle, finally turning his head to look at me. The city lights glinted in his dark, observant eyes. “Commercial holiday. Thought you’d be somewhere else tonight.”
“Well no I chose to be here. You got me anything?” I teased, emboldened by the cold and the privacy.
His gaze held mine, intense and unwavering. Slowly, deliberately, he brought the cigarette to his lips for one last pull, then flicked it over the railing, a tiny comet extinguished in the dark.
“Good choice.”
he reached out. His fingers, long and skilled from a lifetime of bending guitar strings, were surprisingly warm as they brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. The gesture was so tender, so utterly unexpected, it stole my breath.
His hand didn’t leave. It cupped my jaw, his thumb stroking the arch of my cheekbone. He studied my face as if reading sheet music, looking for the key, the tempo. The noise from the party vanished, replaced by the roaring silence of his attention.
“Got you this,” he murmured, his voice even lower, a confidential rasp meant only for me.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t like the kiss you might have imagined from a rockstar. It wasn’t wild or desperate. It was a slow, deep, knowing kiss. The taste of tobacco and whiskey was on his tongue, but beneath it was something cleaner, sharper, like ozone after a storm. It was a kiss that spoke of patience, of a coiled energy held perfectly in check. His other arm slid around my waist, pulling me firmly against the solid, lean line of his body, banishing the cold.
He kissed me like he played a guitar.with focused intent, every movement deliberate, building a silent, aching melody between our shared breath. When he finally broke away, it was only to rest his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breathing slightly uneven—the only sign he was affected at all.
“C’mon,” he said, the word a rough exhale against my lips. He took my hand, his grip firm and sure, and led me back inside, not toward the party, but down a dim, carpeted hallway.
He shouldered open the first door he found a spare bedroom, dark and quiet. He pulled me in, kicked the door shut with his boot, and backed me against it. The wood was cool through my clothes, but he was heat and intention in front of me.
In the near-darkness, lit only by the streetlight slicing through the blinds, his hands were everything. They mapped my spine, slid up under my sweater to spread against the bare skin of my back, pulling me closer. Every touch was deliberate, economical, wasting no movement. He kissed me again, deeper now, a hint of that controlled restraint beginning to fray at the edges.
He walked me backwards toward the bed, his mouth never leaving mine, his hands working with a quiet, devastating efficiency. A button popped. A zipper hissed. Cool sheets met my skin, followed immediately by the overwhelming heat of him.
He moved over me, a silhouette of sharp angles and lean muscle. He paused, looking down at me, his expression unreadable in the dark but his intent a palpable force in the room.
“Quiet,” he instructed, his voice a velvet-rough command, a finger gently tracing my lips. It was less a demand and more a shared secret.He pressed his skin against yours, positioning before entering,slow,deep,steady.for the feel of his calloused fingers on my skin, for the rhythm we found together in the silent dark a rhythm as primal and essential as the backbeat of a forgotten, perfect song.
BTW THE TITLE WAS “STICKY SWEET TOUCH” IT DISAPPEARED😔
