"Not gonna lie, I'm freaking out a bit," I tell Owen as we approached the function suite. "I feel like I'm going to walk through this door and find myself in my old gym hall, wearing my school uniform and my glasses, and feeling like an absolute outcast."
He laughs. "Me too. Now, let's go in before you convince me not to go through with this." He pushes the door open, and the music blasts out at us.
The first thing I notice is the band in the far corner, seemingly having an amazing time as they play away. The room is full of people of a wide variety of ages, much to my surprise. I was expecting it might just be old people, for some reason.
Speaking of old dears, my one-time love rival Sheena sails past at that point, in the arms of a man far closer to her own age. "Och, hello there!" She coos in our direction. " I didn't think this would be your scene!"
"We're just putting some old demons to rest," Owen calls after her. He glances at me. "How are you coping so far?"
I inhale hard. "Let's see . . . Sweaty palms, heart beating too fast . . . Yeah, I've pretty much regressed to my standard teenage state when faced with this scenario." A nervous giggle escapes me, far higher-pitched than my normal laugh.
He slips a hand into mine and squeezes it. My heart contracts in tandem. "I think you're imagining the clammy palms; they feel pretty dry to me." He leads me further into the room, just as a new song starts. "Come on, let's see if muscle memory kicks in - this one sounds familiar."
We slot ourselves into the pairs dancing in a wide circle around the room and start to follow the moves of the couple in front of us. "Ah, it's the Canadian Barn Dance," I remember. "It's all coming screaming back to me now."
Owen moves his hand to my waist. "Your hand goes on my shoulder," he tells me, still observing the other couple. "This feels far less awkward with you already," he adds, and I know what he means. And he's right about muscle memory too - the moves are second nature to me within just a few beats of the music. I'm surprised to discover I'm actually starting to enjoy it!
My favourite part isn't the dancing, though. It's the skin-on-skin contact, usually fleeting but thrilling all the same. It's the eye contact any time we come back together after being forced to move apart as part of the dance. It's the smile on Owen's face, the genuine happiness that is radiating off him.
It's the way being around him makes me feel.
The song concludes, and we all pause in our pairings. "That was more fun than I thought it would be!" I say breathlessly. Our eyes meet again. Hold. We're still tangled in each other, and neither of us move to free ourselves. I feel like my feet are glued to the floor. Maybe they are; I noticed it was a little sticky when we first walked in.
"Turns out all you need is the right partner," he replies, his voice so soft I can barely hear it over the music.
Electricity hums in the air between us, only interrupted by another lively tune beginning. But the music washes over me, merely white noise as Owen leans into me and presses the briefest of kisses to my lips, as light as a feather floating past in the wind.
My eyes flutter closed. "More," I whisper. "I need more." I'm craving it. I'm craving him. That infinitesimal kiss was nowhere near enough to satisfy me. It was one of those teensy little appetisers that just leaves you desperate for something bigger.
"Me too." He brushes his mouth against mine again, lingers there. "But not here."
"Then . . . Where?" I murmur, feeling the warmth of his breath against my face. "When?"
"Now." Before I know it, he's pulling me out of the suite, into the empty hotel corridor that links back to the bar. His energy is different all of sudden, and it has transformed him. He was all relaxed and loose-limbed before; now he is brimming with tension - he's gone from puppy dog perfection to dangerous tiger on the prowl.
The door has barely closed behind us when he pushes me up against the wall. "I don't know how I've managed to hold off for as long as I have," he hisses, taking my face in his hands. His eyes have darkened, and his expression is agonised. "I must be some sort of masochist."
And then his lips capture mine. Soft and smooth, melting into my own, as his body presses into me. One hand slides into and through my hair, grasping my neck and pulling me closer, altering our angles so he can kiss me more deeply, more passionately. He's been longing for me as much as I've been longing for him. I can feel the need emanating from every part of his being, and I can feel myself being consumed by it.
And this is just a kiss? This is like being welcomed in to what you believed was just an introductory lesson, Owen Sullivan 101, and discovering you've actually sailed straight through to the advanced class. And I know this first proper kiss is merely the tip of the iceberg; it was the ice hidden below the surface that obliterated the Titanic so entirely, after all. I'm out of my depth and already drowning, but in the best possible way.
I desperately want to touch him; I'm trying to reach out for his chest, or hips, or face . . . Anything. But his other hand has somehow managed to grasp both of mine at once, trapping my wrists, preventing me from doing so.
He may have just said he was a masochist but right now, he seems to have assumed the role of sadist.
"You can't touch me right now, Mirren." A whispered warning, as he briefly breaks away from the kiss to nuzzle into my neck. "If you touch me anywhere else, I'm pretty sure I'll lose my fucking mind."
And then his mouth moulds into mine once again. If that first kiss was a tidal wave, this one is more like a gentle babbling stream. The refreshing cool down that we both desperately need to recover from the first hit. This is the kiss we possibly should have started with.
I'm glad we did it the other way around, though. I'm a big fan of a starter, as you know, but occasionally, I just want to skip straight to dessert.
And Owen's kisses are like all my favourite desserts combined. I want to gorge myself on them, but he's already starting to retreat, possibly sensing my imminent overdose.
"Wow," he murmurs against my mouth, his hands cupping my face again. "That was . . ." His eyes, heated and burnished bronze, flicker open and study my face. "That was . . ." He repeats, then laughs, embarrassed. "I've lost all my words, apparently."
I know what he means. After all, I've just used approximately 2 million metaphors to describe his kisses, and my entire vocabulary source is completely depleted.
"It was . . . Pretty good, I suppose," I finish nonchalantly. But my lips curl into the widest smile as I say it; there's no way I can hide my feelings.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his grin matching my own, his breath coming fast. "I can't believe I finally got to kiss you again," he says quietly. "I never really thought I was going to get that opportunity." Pink floods his cheeks.
"Same," I whisper. My fingers curl into his beltloops, anchoring me to him. "Now about that whole hotel room thing . . . Do you think you can actually come back to mine now? Because I'd like to continue this without worrying about traumatising the next person who decides to leave the ceilidh."
He laughs again, slipping his arms around me and pulling me into the sweetest of hugs. "I think I can do that now." My insides wobble with my sheer like for this guy. I can't remember ever being swept up this entirely by another person. It's terrifying and all-encompassing and . . . Incredible.
And I need to take this to the next level.
"Come on then." I gently remove myself from his arms and grab his hand. The bar is quiet now as we retrace our earlier steps through it. We can still hear music from the ceilidh, of course, but it's no longer inciting the horror in me that it did even half an hour previously. I think I'm finally cured of my Scottish country dancing phobia.
Reception is noisier though. A dark haired man, frustration clear in his tone, is asking the woman behind the desk to check again to see if there are any rooms available. "I'm sorry to ask," he's saying. "But I just drove for hours to get up here to see my girlfriend and I can't get a hold of her . . . You don't have any rooms free at all?"
I freeze as I realise I recognise the voice. I've known it for years, after all. My whole life, actually.
What the fuck is my brother doing in Ullapool?
*hits Publish, starts breathing again*
Writing kissing scenes always makes me soooo nervous . . . I'm never sure where to set it or how much lead-up or description it needs, and I honestly am in awe of anyone who can do if well, because I really struggle. So I hope this one was okay!
One thing I reckon I am pretty skilled in creating though? A good old fashioned cock-block! 🤣 Hey Kieran! 👋