He had golden eyes and thick, boyish hair that fell into his face. As my eyes made their way from one fold-up seat to the next, I sized up each miserable member of the night's meeting. I slowed my stare, up from his ragged shoes, his thinned jeans, his snug sweater. His glance sent my chin straight to my chest. I stopped, staggered, returned my gaze again to his velvet eyes. There was no expression of alienation, though none of intrigue, either. His eyes locked into mine with a thud of friendly acknowledgment. I sank back into anonymity. I scoped the room and was met with a loose smile from an older woman; she shifted herself in her seat, grabbed her purse from the chair beside her, and motioned me toward her. I couldn't help but constrain my body as I walked toward her, my arms straight along my sides, my fingers fondling the low waistline of my jeans.
His seat was directly across from mine.
The attraction was paralyzing. My nerves fluttered in my stomach, my arousal thundered in my throat, dry; my breath became short and my face, hot.
It was a numbing hour. I tuned out the sob stories and let my mind wander. I kept my gaze at my feet. I didn't dare look up. I had been attending NA meetings for 3 years. I started going when I was 17, in the thick of a pill problem. It had become more than a resource; it was a personal obligation. Meetings were usually bland, the same mix of people. I didn't go to hear the steps or the stories, but to use the hour as a sort of meditation. The hum of conversation facilitated some clear thinking. This time, though, I couldn't shift my focus. His lips were unreal. His dark hair, tussled, a contrast to the light intensity of his eyes. His features were straight, sexy. He was tall, slender. My heart throbbed in my chest, and I lifted my hand to meet it. There was silence. I realized...the buzz of voices had stopped. I looked up.
The room was staring at me, faces of concern. The woman beside me asked, "Are you alright, dear?"
I avoided looking directly ahead, but I felt his gaze. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his lips curl into a wicked smile. My heart fell again.
"I-I...I'm just feeling a little sick. I'll be fine."
"Well," she said, "no matter, it's about time we close up."
I hardly knew what to do with myself. I stood, stressed, and ran my hand along the back of my neck. I needed to leave. I turned to the door, and it was one foot in front of the other until my fingers tightened around the cold steel bar. I pushed the door open and it was a godsend; cool air caressed my warm skin. I instantly felt better, freed. I leaned against the brick wall of the small building and ran my fingers through my brown locks. I let out a deep, long sigh, finally slowing down, collecting my thoughts. I'd never be able to think clearly with that man in the room...I would look for a new meeting, maybe one farther downtown.
I heard the door swing open. I turned to wave goodbye, to apologize even, for my leaving so quickly...and there it all was. The eyes. The lips. The body. All devoured the space in front of me. In a blur, his body was inches from mine. He radiated a chilling cool, and he towered over my small frame. "You haven't much talent in maintaining composure." His voice was smooth, young, coy. I couldn't speak. Unafraid, he lifted his hand. With his thumb, he gently traced the definition of my cheekbone, the softness of my bottom lip, and rested, to my displeasure, simply upon my collar bone. I melted.
I felt my hips take my body from the cold bricks and bring me closer to his core. I closed my eyes, arched my back against the wall. The arousal coursed through me, and the fear left. My earlier intimidation turned immediately into a harsh desire. He exhaled.
"Do you want to come?"
