What's In My Drink?

“You drink first,” I said, nodding at him and he shrugged and took a sip from his glass.

“No,” I corrected him, exasperated, “Drink mine first.”

“Want to taste me?” he asked, “Well there will be plenty of time for that once we’ve gotten to know each other a bit better.”

I sighed, not playing around, and held my glass out to him, “Come on jackass. Show me that you didn’t spike it.”

He scoffed but took it out of my hand, “For the record I did spike it, with vodka. But if you think I’m going to waste anything harder on a girl like you then you’ve got quite the ego on yourself.”

Blake took a good sip, enough that the liquid level in the cup diminished visibly. Enough to make me satisfied that he hadn’t decided that drugging me was the quickest way to the finish line.

He smacked his lips in satisfaction and held my glass back out to me and I took it, taking a cautious sip and keeping my eyes on him the whole time.

“For the record,” I followed up with him, “I don’t think ego has anything to do with it.”

“Oh you think I’m a monster then?” he asked.

I turned away and walked over to a pile of folding chairs that had been piled up in the corner, lending the impression that I was inspecting them, “Let’s just say that I haven’t discounted the possibility.”

Too quick he moved, stepping up and closing the distance between the two of us. Pressing up into me from behind, nearly wrapping himself around me.

I was reminded of the closeness in the library and the way it made me feel. The oppressive press of him above and around me. The sense of overpowering masculinity that was such a contrast to the femininity this body I was in possessed.

“If I wanted to be a monster I could,” he said, his voice low and deep, “And I get the feeling that you wouldn’t mind one bit.”

Before I could respond he had already stepped away, once more moving over to something off on the edges of the clearing. This time it was a dresser that had been dumped here. He pulled open the drawers and pulled out a little radio, setting it on top and turning it on.

The sound of something slow and melodic filtered out into the clearing. It was a quiet but intimate song, the type that you’d dance to with lingering touches.

“A little background music,” he explained, “So you don’t feel too disconnected from the party.”

He was on the opposite side of the clearing from me and it was dark enough here that I could only make him out by degrees. In the half light of the place he somehow seemed larger than usual, big enough that it made me feel far on this side of small and petite.

“Sounds boring,” I said, “I like a different tune.”

“Do you?” Blake challenged me, stepping forward slowly to close the difference between us, “What would you prefer then? Something hard and fast? Something rough and ragged? Something grindy and intense? Something… else?”

He was closer now. Close enough that I could feel my heart beat a little faster as I remembered once more the feel of him on me in the library. I took a nervous sip of my drink and found that, without really realizing that I’d done it, I’d already finished it.

“You know what I think?” he went on.

I shook my head, “What do you think?”

He slid in fast, light and quick. He slipped down so that he was whispering in my ear.

“I think you don’t know what you want.”

When Blake pulled back he had a grin on his lips. He plucked the cup from my hands and tossed it off to one side. All of this was done with deliberate momentum and movement, carefully chosen and selected.

“I want to dance,” he told me, “I want to dance with you, Emily.”

And then he reached for me and I didn’t know if I could resist.

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