She was also pissed off.
And all I could think about was grabbing her and pushing her up against a wall so I could fuck the hell out of her.
She looked up at me with her lips slightly parted, her breath short, and fire in her eyes. "You know what's fucking rude?" she asked, her voice louder than it needed to be for how close I was standing to her. "It's fucking rude to chase down a girl in the hallway of a hotel. Maybe she doesn't want to be chased down by some creep."
I was too distracted by her sweet lips to even register what she was saying. Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip, and in an instant I was hard. Goddamn it. I never wanted to just press my lips down hard against anyone else's lips as bad as I did right then.
I fucking wanted this girl so bad I could taste it. It was instant, some kind of primal thing, like I was a damn caveman.
I had to shake off the image that flashed in my head, the one of me throwing her over my shoulder and taking her to my room.
"Well?" she asked. Her hand was on her hip, the other hand holding the ice bucket. "Are you going to say anything, or are you just going to keep staring at me? Maybe you want a fucking picture? Or my autograph? What the hell is it?"
She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Her cheeks were flushed, though, and she was unsteady on her feet. She was just as drunk as I was, I realized.
I cleared my throat. "The ice," I said. "Where's the ice machine?"
Her mouth dropped open, like she wasn’t expecting me to ask a simple question like that. I wondered what the hell she thought I was yelling about. Then she laughed. "That's what you want?"
"Why the hell would I want your fucking autograph?" I asked. "I just wanted to know where you filled up the ice bucket."
She laughed, louder this time, the sound melodic. It felt warm, somehow, even though I couldn’t figure out if she was angry or full of herself or just a bitch. She shook her head, then ran her hand through her hair, strands sticking up messily every which way, and looked down at her hand, covered in little pieces of hair.
She caught the look I give her, and shrugged. "I just cut it," she said, wiping her hand on her pajama pants.
"Yourself?" I asked. I didn’t even care. I just want an excuse to keep talking to her, no matter what her hair looked like. Even if it looked a little bit like someone took hedge clippers to it.
She shrugged again. "I needed a change."
"It suits you," I said. How did I fucking know what suited her?
She grinned. Her smile was radiant. It was a complete cliché, but it could light up a room. She could light up a room. She had that kind of presence. Even in a hotel hallway, drunk and wearing pajama pants.
"It does," she said, her hand going up to her hair again, the movement self-conscious. "I think it does suit me." She sounded surprised. She held out the ice bucket. "For your drink?"
I took a few ice cubes and dropped them into my cup. "Appreciate it," I said. Then there were voices in the corridor, and a group of college students, drunk and obnoxious, came closer. A fleeting look of panic crossed the girl's face, and she grabbed my arm, pulled me toward her, her back against the wall, her face close to mine.
She was still holding the ice bucket in one hand. I had my drink in my hand, my other palm on the wall, inches away from her head. I heard the college students from somewhere behind us, hollering as they passed.
"Yeah," one whooped. "Get it, man!"
My lips were nearly touching hers, a millimeter away. I couldn’t think of anything except how she would taste. I wanted her. I had never been so immediately sure of anything. I pressed my lips against hers, lightly for a second, and she responded, her mouth opening, and I heard her moan, just barely. The sound was so soft I was not sure it was her, but she arched her body toward me, and I felt her tongue against mine. I moved my hand away from the wall, grasping the back of her head at the base of her neck, and pulling her into me as I kissed her.
Kiss was the fucking understatement of the year.
I didn’t just kiss her. I fucked her mouth with my tongue, my thrusts insistent. I wanted to rip her clothes off right here in the hallway and press her up against the wall.
She made this little moan again, this sound that I thought would drive me insane.
And then she pulled away, put one hand on my chest, and pushed me back. "I -" she started. "I need to go."
She put her hand to her mouth. Her lips were red, swollen where I'd kissed her. I wanted to kiss her again, leave bruising kisses on her lips, her neck. On her breasts.
Before I could even respond, she had stepped away and was starting to walk down the hall. "Hey," I called. "I don't even know your name."
She turned again, and flashed me a grin. "No," she said. "You don't."
Then she walked away.