My mouth presses against his of its own accord, with intensity and almost abandonment. I catch Ben's bottom lip between mine and lick it gently, savoring the lingering sweetness of the butter sauce. The teasing taste of him is better than a gulp of air after holding your breath for too long.

There's a moment of hesitation, a pause before Ben joins the game, pushing his lips into mine, mimicking me and grabbing my lower lip between his. As he opens his mouth, I'm the aggressor, picking up speed, my closed-lip kisses grow more urgent and careless. I push every available inch of my body against the surface of his chest, feeling deprived and aching for more contact.

What started as a hug with my arms around his waist, evolves into a heated study of the warm skin of his lower back under his white t-shirt. Now the air envies me and my ability to indulge in the feel of Ben against my fingers. I don't have time to gloat. One of Ben's hands finds the space between the belt in my jeans and my shirt. The icy-hot sensation ripples from my lower back and into my stomach. Ben's other hand grabs my neck and presses our faces closer together as if it were possible for them to become one.

Breaths mixing, palms aimless and exploring—the instincts take over. Two annoying thin layers of cotton separate our bodies, no matter how close together we are. Craving his skin, I pull the bottom of his t-shirt up, but my arms are under his, and there's no way for me to take the irritating piece of clothing off.

Frustrated, I step back, my goal—to get rid of his shirt. As we disconnect for a moment, I look at Ben. His lips—swollen, eyes—dazed, shirt—crumpled, chest heaving harder than after his swim, I know he is my mirror, and that I appear just as eager and just as disheveled.

Ben's finger traces my puffy lips, and I kiss it. His breath hitches and breaks any remaining restraints I used to resist Ben's physical pull. I lightly bite his finger and hold it between my teeth, as I run my tongue along its pad, close my lips around it and suck it in. My fingers on his skin felt amazing, but my tongue tasting it, is so much better. He stares at my mouth, and I hear him swallow. He pops his finger out and his lips are back on mine. I touch his teeth with my tongue, asking to let me in. His teeth part and our tongues touch. Better than my skin to his skin. Better than my tongue to his skin. My tongue to his tongue—the best. Something shifts between us and the analytical circuits shut down, corrupted by the mutual pent-up desire.

He closes the gap I created, grasps my head between both of his hands, and we are flush against each other. His tongue is inside, devouring my mouth, and I respond in kind. The world outside our linked bodies ceases to exist, so intent I am on the feel of our lips colliding, teeth occasionally in the way, heads turning to find a better angle: deeper, harder, longer.

My hands remember what they were craving and find the skin of Ben's sides, pausing at the in and out of his ribs, continuing upwards to the shoulder blades. I've seen his back in the water but feeling it with my oversensitive fingertips ignites my core. My focus jumps around, assaulted by a myriad of signals vying for my attention: lips on lips, his hand on my head, my hands on his body, our chest together—too much and not enough. I want to feel it all.

A buzzing noise, then a ringing, followed by more ringing breaks through the fog in my brain. A phone is ringing and ringing somewhere next to us. Ben pauses and removes his mouth from my lips. He rests his forehead on mine, holding my face in his hands. Then, as if he can't help himself, he leans in and gives me another deep but brief kiss before he lets go of me and grabs his phone from the counter. Ben puts it to his ear and, a bit short of breath, says, "Hello."

All I can hear is mumbling on the other end of the line.

"Yes, we are about to leave. See you soon, Mom." Ben shoves the phone into the back pocket of his jeans and looks into my eyes. "We have to go now. But I can't wait to kiss you again. I liked it."

He moves around the kitchen, putting the dishes with the food we made into an insulated bag, as I'm panicking in my head. There's no possible way we are stopping, not like that, not over a phone call. I'm on fire, the liquid heat pulses in my veins, and I'm going to combust if we don't finish what we started.

"I liked it too." I sigh a barely-there whisper of agreement.

I kissed Ben, and I liked it. I liked it so much it hurts me watching him fuss with the food. He has to come back, he has to keep kissing me, I have to touch all of him, and I need him to touch every inch of me.

I take a step forward, determined to stop his ambling around, and force him to concentrate on me. And that's when my mind switches on, and a giant sign lights up in my brain. 'Danger, danger, step away from the line' it flashes, reminding me I've crossed a boundary.

I broke my rule. The wall I have so carefully constructed between us lies in shambles. I am back into the messy territory where desire and logic are at war and, although my body won the battle, my brain isn't giving up. It wants the opposite outcome. That contradiction is why I shouldn't have gotten involved with Ben in the first place. I've ruined my friendship with Ben. The lines are blurred, and the signals are as mixed as they could be.

Why do I do this to myself? Sabotaging anything good, choosing the immediate gratification over the long-term success? Distance. I need to put some distance between us. I retreat into the hallway to put my shoes and raincoat on. The heat from kissing Ben morphs into scorching anger towards my selfish stupidity.

***

Ben must let go of my hand, to put the bag with our lunch into the trunk of his car. I go around and buckle myself into the passenger's seat, ready for my first ride with him.

"It usually takes about five minutes to drive to their place, and I sometimes walk over there instead." Ben turns up the speed of the wipers in a futile attempt to combat the waterfall on the windshield. "I would expect it will be at least a quarter of an hour today," he says. "The traffic is bad."

Not a single part of me cares about the ETA to his parent's place. Why hasn't he mentioned the kiss? "Are we going to ignore what happened between us?"

"I'm assuming you are referring to you kissing me." My non sequitur doesn't seem to surprise him.

"You kissed me back. A lot. And then you kissed me too." It's true. He did. It was not one sided at all.

"I'm aware. I thought it went well and hope we keep doing it."

"No regrets?" Because I had a few, like losing a friend over my hormones and lack of self-control. Did I spoil his first kiss? I can't even remember mine and I hoped his would be memorable.

"Regrets?" Ben takes a second before he continues. "If you are worried about Linda—there is no need. I told her Friday I didn't want to keep dating her. I wouldn't have kissed you back otherwise. Seeing two people at the same time is not something I can ever imagine myself doing."

Linda. I completely forgot about her and that she could've been in the picture when I kissed Ben. I didn't know they had broken up. The whole point of Ben and I meeting up after swimming was to talk about what happened on their Friday night date, and that thought hadn't crossed my mind. Something is malfunctioning in my brain. Linda. I thought he liked Linda. Why didn't he want to date Linda?

"Why?" I ask.

"Why what?"

"Why do you not want to date her? I thought you liked her and found her attractive."

Ben's eyes don't stray off the road. "I like her and do find her attractive. She is kind, into books, and she is beautiful, but the difference between the dinner you and I had Thursday and the one I had with her Friday made it clear, I'm not interested in Linda as a girlfriend."

Our dinner went better than the one with Linda? She must've not been pleased at all at that turn of events. She was pretty full of herself the last time I saw her. I'm getting too much pleasure out of imagining Linda's reaction to Ben's words.

"How did she take it?"

"She was mad at first and said she saw how we were, in her words, 'eyeing each other at the poetry reading'. And in the end, she told me to call her if I wanted to have a good time. I'm pretty sure she meant—"

I put my hand on his mouth. I don't need to hear what Linda's intentions were. I see them in graphic detail in my mind. Ben's breath tickles my fingers and I jerk them back into my lap.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..." The words stumble out of me. I pause, breathe in and out and continue at normal speed. "I know what she meant. She made that clear to me at the bookstore. Are you going to take her up on her offer?"

"I explained that already. I'm not interested in Linda at this time. OK?"

"OK." At this time? What does he mean? Am I the practice ground for Linda? Is that why he kissed me? No. I kissed him first. This doesn't fit. The puzzle pieces are coming together, and I don't like the picture they're painting. Ben didn't lean away from my kiss, like he did with Linda. He was all over me, once we started kissing and matched my every move. Ben likes me. Ben likes me likes me. The thought makes me giddy. Ben likes me and not Linda. If he's not Linda's he can be mine. No, he can't. The sobering thought puts out all the giddiness and I'm back to feeling like a nasty pervert.

There's an expiration date to my life in Chicago. And Ben and I are not at all on the same page. He's looking for a girlfriend and the best I can offer is friends with benefits. He deserves better and I have my thesis, my jobs and my mom to worry about. There's no room for a relationship in my life. I need to let him down gently, apologize for my inappropriate behavior in his kitchen and get us back into the friend zone. My focus is on my future and the opportunities ahead of me. I've learned my lesson. I'm not going to put my graduation in danger because of a hot guy. That was the old Amélie's pattern. The new me is supposed to have my head straight and my legs crossed.