She can't think.
It's like midnight on a school night, and instead of Gertrude Stein poems or something relevant, the only thing she can think about is that kiss. She paces in her bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, trying to clear her head. This shouldn't be happening.
It's not like she hasn't been kissed before either, she has, and that kiss was definitely not the earth-shattering, harlequin kiss that she used to read in her grandmother's old romance novels - she didn't faint and she definitely doesn't think she's falling in love or in like with him either. So he gave her a box of records -
(she glares at the box sitting on her desk, clearly, it's an accomplice)
what does that prove, other than that he knows what she likes? Okay, so that's maybe going against what she's trying to prove here, but still. The point stands. Or - shit, what was the point again? - oh, god, she's becoming one of those people - like Virginia Woolf without all the years of creative expression. She groans, flops down on her bed.
When she closes her eyes, she can feel the warmth of his arms around her again, the way his rough hands felt against her cheek, the way his lips moved against hers.
She exhales loudly. This is... beyond frustrating.
Just as she's about to start doing push-ups to get her mind off of nothing, literally, there's a tap at her window. She crosses her arms under her chest, prepared for battle, before undoing the latch. He leans in through the window, but he doesn't enter yet.
"What do you want?"
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't mean to say that you were a slut or anything."
She purses her lips. "Well, now that that's been settled..." She waves her hand dismissively.
"Oh, come on," he says.
"What? You want the records back?"
He growls, "You know that's not what I'm trying to say."
"I'm not psychic, so I don't actually know what you're trying to say ... ever."
He crosses the threshold of her window to stand in her room, looking a little out of place - his height makes him seem like a giant Alice about to burst in the shrinking house. He reaches out, fingers brushing her arm, and she starts, but begins to relax into his touch. She draws closer towards him, even though she knows she shouldn't. He smirks. "I know you don't hate me," he says, fingers moving along her arms to link around her back, reaching up to play with the ends of her hair.
Her breath picks up - this is more than she expected, more than she wanted, but still, he fucking turns her into this hormonal mess and she's more than that - she's educated and interested in the world...
She closes her eyes when his hands bury themselves in her hair, fingers brushing against her neck. He's leaning in now, and it feels like that time at the concert; she knows she can stop, should stop, but for some reason, she doesn't. His lips touch hers and then, it starts all over again - the rooftop. She slides her hips into position against his, inadvertently grinding against him; he groans into her mouth, and it all picks up, frenzied and quick, tongues sliding along teeth.
When she pulls away, he looks a little flushed.
"I just wanted to, uh, say," he says, voice deep, "good night."
"Well," she says, licking her lips and setting her hands on her hips, "good night."
He closes the window behind him. She lies down in bed, closes her eyes. Licking her lips, she thinks, well, maybe she doesn't quite hate him.