Page 14 of Winning Match
The club spins—color, lights, noise. My head pounds—bass, vodka, heartache.
Hope.
My hand grips his shoulder, finding purchase in his shirt. His hand cinches my waist, pulling me into his frame as we move. The top of my head rests just below his chin and when I suck in a breath, I breathe in his scent.
Soap and citrus and sea. I savor it.
Ale hugs me closer as the song ends, and we begin to sway, like two lovers at midnight, under a beam of moonlight, rather than two strangers, sweating and panting, in a club. This moment shouldn’t be romantic—but it is.
This—not the years I spent with Gerard—is my mom and dad dancing in the kitchen, soapy bubbles still in the sink. It’s Dad taking Mom out on the sailboat at sunset to witness the bright colors fade into night on Narragansett Bay. It’s the thoughtful acts and gestures I watched my parents exchange daily until Mom passed. And now, Dad doesn’t recall them.
Only I do.
Again, Ale’s hand gathers my hair to move it behind my shoulder. He keeps his large hand fisted at the nape of my neck as he drops his mouth to my ear. “Are you okay?”
I nod.
“Do you want to leave?”
It’s a generous offer but the thought of ending this night, of severing my connection with Ale, hurts nearly as much as walking in on Gerard and the blonde.
“No,” I say resolutely.
Ale drags his other hand up the column of my neck. His thumb lifts my chin, and I hold his gaze.
Vibrant green flecked with gold. Hypnotizing. Centering.
We’ve stopped swaying and are standing still as the rest of the club moves around us. I melt into him, comforted by his concern, his compassion, his protection.
“Want to make him jealous? Make him crazy and needy for you the way most of the men in this club are?” His tone is threaded with a quiet rage, an urgent need.
I nod. Yes, I want to make Gerard jealous. I want to make him feel the same embarrassment and shame that I felt seeing him in that hotel room, pounding into the blonde stranger from behind. Listening to him dismiss me, discount the years we dated, like our entire relationship was inconsequential.
Ale’s thumb swipes over my cheek again. “Do you trust me, Marli?”
“Yes,” I reply. And it’s raw. Honest.
Alarming.
I hardly know him and yet, I trust him.
I don’t have time to question why that is. Because in the next breath, Ale’s mouth lowers to mine and he kisses me.
My hands slide down to his hips and hold as I press even further into his embrace. Ale drops my hair, his hand sliding to my lower back and I arch into him, wanting every part of me pressed against his hard muscle. I tilt my head, and he deepens our kiss, his tongue slipping into my mouth and gliding against mine.
I see stars. My heart gallops and my breathing is erratic.
Around us, the club fades away. The flashing lights, the thumping bass, the crush of swaying bodies—it all ceases to exist. Nothing matters in this moment other than the feel of Ale’s mouth on mine. His tongue coaxes little moans from me and my legs turn to water, barely capable of keeping me up. My eyes remain closed as I lose myself in the kiss, in the moment, in Ale.
And two thoughts collide in my mind.
1. I’ve never been kissed like this.
2. Maybe Gladys was right; I have been missing out.
I smile against his mouth, and he pulls back slightly, his eyes catching mine. “You like that?”
I nod, biting my bottom lip. I wrap my arms around his neck and tug him closer. “I’ve never been kissed like that, Ale.”
