I swallowed hard. Becca was crying. I hate it when people I care about cry. It just breaks my heart. "Becca, what's wrong? Why are you crying?" I asked, full of concern.
"Nothing," she replied, sniffling.
"Don't give me that. You may cry over many things, but 'nothing' is not one of them."
"I don't know. I think it's just a little bit of everything that's been building up inside, ya know?"
I nodded my head, but I didn't fully believe her. I couldn't help but think there was more to it as I continued to lean over her, straddling her legs. A lonely tear slid down her cheek. I brought my hand up to her face, and wiped the tear away.
Now any other guy who had a girlfriend in the house upstairs sleeping would've taken his hand away. But I didn't; I couldn't. I couldn't stop myself from staring into her eyes, or caressing her cheek.
'How can something that's so wrong feel so right?' I kept asking myself this over and over as I leaned in, and pressed my lips against Becca's. I was going to pull away. Really, I was. But Becca slid her tongue into my mouth, and I had no choice but to follow her lead.
She took her arms out of the sleeves of my sweatshirt, and discarded it to the floor. Wrapping her arms around my neck, her fingers gently traced my spine. Then she rested her hands on my lower back.
'What are you doing!?! Stop this!' my mind would scream. But I just couldn't get my body to obey. It was as if our lips were glued together; I couldn't pull mine from hers.
Becca wrapped her arms around me tighter, pulling me closer. I was no longer leaning over her, but laying on top of her now. Her right leg wrapped itself around my left.
My hands worked their way down her torso, tracing her shape: her chest, her ribs, her waist. My right hand quietly slipped under the tee and ran across her stomach. I felt the coolness of her silver naval ring under my palm. I smiled to myself as I remembered that day in London. We were so close then, and now, we were even closer.
Slowly, gently, my hand slid up under her shirt. Becca's cool, silky skin was a sharp contrast to my calloused hand. My hand reached her breasts. I stopped kissing her and froze. "Oh, shit," I muttered.