Meeting Anna by K. Sharif (digital book reader .TXT) 📕

His hands are all over me. My hair, my waist, my hips and even my thighs.
His mouth as he kisses me, feels incredibly hot on my lips, and I find myself unconsciously pulling his head toward me, my fingers interlacing itself through his tousled, dark curls, yanking and pulling at his hair, desperately trying to get closer, as if no amount of proximity would suffice.
Our lips move simultaneously, our tongues entangle, our breaths, ragged and heavy, rush out in unbearable, choked gasps, leaving our lungs as soon as they enter, and a peculiar overriding sense of both longing and desire overpowers any feeling of need that we have for oxygen. A strong emotion shamefully wasted on a meaningless, drunken kiss.
Meanwhile, I let my hands roam, leisurely feeling my way toward his lean chest and the subtle muscles that play beneath the soft fabric of his dark grey v-neck top. I feel his heart thud sporadically under the palm of my hand, moving at the same unsteady pace as my own.
Slowly and carefully, he begins to back me up against the cool, hard, living room wall, his body that’s magically adhered to my own, moving with mine in perfect synchronization. And then, as if finding the absence of my lips agonizing, his mouth is on mine again in a flash.
I welcome the warmth of his lips, their voluptuousness, their tenderness and the way they softly caress my own with every stroke of his lips. He tastes good, a combination of alcohol and peppermint on his breath, complimented by the sweet scent of his cologne.
It is there, trapped in his embrace and consumed with sheer lust and other incomprehensible emotions, that I finally remember that the boy that I’m now kissing is a total stranger.
I don't know his name or how old he is, and yet here I am playing tonsil tennis with him at my best friends' eighteenth birthday party. This revelation alone hits me harder than a ton of bricks.
I feel myself abruptly pulling away from him, and my knees instantly begin to fail me – a silent punishment for not having stayed in his strong arms – and then, I’m falling, and falling and falling…
In the distance of my brain, I can still hear the music playing, I can hear the laughter of the students in this room, the smashing of their glasses, the stomping of their feet, moving in the same rhythm as the music, and then somehow, throughout all of this noise, all of this banter, I can still hear the anxious calls of this unknown boy.
And before I can find any way to react, to assure him that I’m fine, even though I’m not, he fluidly catches me by my elbow and swiftly pulls me back against his hard chest, his hands resting securely on the small of my back. And immediately, I’m safe again.
I’m still slightly dazed when I let my eyes travel up toward his. I find myself staring at him, almost obsessively, from where I’m caged between his arms and torso, as if witnessing something otherworldly. An Angel. My breath leaves me in a rush.
His eyes are beautiful, I observe; an endless pool of dark brown, ringed in what appears to be a honey-coloured iris – a set of unique eyes guaranteed to hold and rid anyone of their thoughts.
As if to distract myself, I let my eyes wander around his face, taking in his barely perceptible scar that lay above his right brow and then the longish strands of curly, dishevelled and mysteriously dark hair poking out of the grey beanie hat that he wears loosely over his head.
I awkwardly try to comb through my own hair – which I’m pretty sure now resembles a bird’s nest – with my fingers, suddenly feeling a strange sense of self-consciousness with him staring at me the way that he is. I feel a bizarre need to hide away from his scrutinizing gaze.
He tilts his head to the side and watches me closely, a slight amused, yet confused look on his face now. I don’t know what he sees or thinks, but my face must be giving off a what-are-you-smiling-about look, because after a second he finally begins to speak.
“I don’t usually do this,” he says sluggishly. I notice a faint flowing accent in his voice. “This whole… you know, kissing thing.” On the word ‘kissing’ he raises his brows to emphasize his word.
I pull away from his arms again, slower this time, and release a shuddering breath as I steady myself and attempt to straighten up, meeting his gaze once more. He is much taller than me, I notice. And has a slight athletic build to his body. “Err, me neither.”
My response comes awkwardly to my lips, and I realize a fraction of a second later, that not only is this because I’m lying to this, clueless, foreign boy, but also because he is still standing so close to me. So unbearably close.
Normally, this isn’t much of a problem. And since we’ve spent practically five minutes of our lives making out, with our hands literally groping all parts of our bodies, I shouldn’t be feeling so uncomfortable standing this close to him. But for some reason… I am.
“But I liked it… a lot,” he continues, as he leans his body sideways against the crimson wall beside me, almost swaying as he does so. “Did you…?”
There’s this air of confidence emitting from him, this unnerving air of poise and gracefulness that’s rare to find in most teenage boys. He just watches me, calmly, unwaveringly, with those dark, enigmatic eyes of his, taking in my every move and facial expressions and then occasionally, lets his eyes flicker to my lips.
Again, a wave of self-consciousness washes over me, taunting me, a feeling impossible to shake off. I don’t usually feel this vulnerable, this pathetically weak and exposed, and although I hate to admit it… it scares me a little.
My answer is a motion that is halfway between a nod and a shrug, and honestly, I don’t even have a clue what I was trying to accomplish myself. He must think that I’m severely retarded.
Eventually, I settle for speaking – internally grateful that at least my voice seems to work perfectly. "Yeah, it was fine."
After I speak, I add a little shrug, trying to play it off as nothing. A simple kiss, that’s all it was. But inside, I’m screaming. And this constant painful thudding in my chest, I presume, is what a mini heart attack feels like.
His lip eases up into one of those charming half-smiles, and he gracefully holds his hand out in front of me, in a respectful gesture. “I’m Julian Colbert. You’re Tessa Parker, right?”
I almost laugh at the irony of him introducing himself right after sticking his tongue down my throat. Or to introduce himself at all. Most boys his age would have left after a make-out session and have undoubtedly ignored my existence thereafter. That’s what drunken kisses are about.
But still, I can’t help that pleasurable shiver that ripples through my body when I hear him say my name with that beautiful low voice, accompanied by that unfamiliar, yet breathtaking, accent.
I take his hand and attempt a small smile in return. “Yeah, that’s-“ And then a thought occurs to me. He shouldn’t have known my name. “Wait, how do you know my name?”
He opens his mouth as if to respond and I focus on the movements of his lips, trying to catch his words, but before he's able to release a breath, much less answer my question, to my dismay, we're suddenly interrupted.
"There you are!"
Julian instantly turns to his right and a stray curl of his hair falls over his eyes. I reluctantly follow his gaze to find Claire, my best friend, marching toward us, balancing two cartons stacked with cans of Stella in her arms.
She couldn't have come at a worse time, I think, internally wishing that she turns back around in the direction that she came from and returns later. Of course, that's not what happens.
She stops a foot away from us and looks at Julian and then at me, and then back at Julian before she blinks a couple of times and repeats that motion until she’s completely certain that her eyes aren’t playing tricks.
"You're not hallucinating Claire," I murmur, feeling my cheeks burn.
Fortunately, Claire stops continuously staring between us like an absolute lunatic, and turns to drop the two boxes on the coffee table beside us, before she turns to us again, smiling brilliantly.
From the corner of my eyes, I see Julian's lips twitch and then a second later, his eyes are clouded with confusion. And suddenly, I’m left with a strange need to apologize for my friends’ bizarre behaviour. I could probably tell him that Claire’s not always like this, which is technically untrue but whatever makes this less awkward, hey?
After deciding not to justify Claire’s actions, and standing in an uncomfortable silence for what I can only assume to be a minute and forty eight seconds, Claire blurts, “you’re aim is certainly getting better,” as she trails over Julian’s body with her eyes and then raises her brow at me suggestively.
I feel my eyes widen in both shock and humiliation, and I'm literally seconds from attacking her then and there when an unexpected movement on my left abruptly catches my attention, and I find myself subconsciously turning in Julian's direction.
Julian suddenly seeming oblivious to mine and Claire’s presence, swiftly pulls his phone out of his front pocket and focuses his eyes on a name flashing repeatedly on his screen. I hadn't meant to look intentionally, but even so, I can't help but feel an odd stab of jealousy when I notice that it's a girl’s name.
From the look on his face, an odd mix of delight and apprehension, I can only assume it to be his girlfriend. Joy, from being happy that she called him and then apprehension because he’d kissed me.
I try to dispel the disappointment that’s creeping over me, and desperately keep my voice smooth when I say, “Go ahead. Answer it.”
Julian meets my eyes and gives me an apologetic glance, holding my gaze longer than necessary, as if trying to convey a silent message, and then he slips away through a crowd of students, the last word I hear as he answers his phone being, "Anna..."‎
And I’m left staring after him.

Publication Date: 05-31-2011

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