into his arms and stay there forever, but the Ruse had already swung into their next song. It rocked hard, and Nate immediately moved away to give himself room to pound his fist and dance.
I wondered if the band took requests and if I could ask them to play "Disenchanted" another thirty or forty times in a row.
Turns out I didn't need that particular song. Any ballad was good. Each time they played one, Nate curled his arms around me again, rocking me, kissing my neck, and doing that crazy nibbling thing that made my knees buckle.
During the band's final encore—a power ballad that was fast becoming my favorite song ever—Nate let his fingers creep ever so slowly toward my chest. Part of me froze in terror at the idea of him actually touching my breasts, especially in the middle of a crowd of people. But I didn't stop him.
The song ended before it could happen. Nate immediately released me to cheer and scream like crazy. I joined in—it seemed like the thing to do—but really I was obsessing about what would happen next with Nate.
I hoped he would kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. I really wanted him to kiss me. But the near-public boob touch made me nervous that for him kissing would just be the start. If he tried more and I asked him to stop ... would he be cool with that? Would he think I was a loser? Would he even listen?
When the lights went on, Nate looked at me in a way that both thrilled and scared me. "Let's go," he said. He led me through the crowd to the car, holding my hand the whole way.
I liked that. It felt like he was taking care of me.
He didn't kiss me before we got into the car or once we were inside. He just drove, blaring the Ruse's CD so we could "keep the concert mood." My mood was 100 percent eager anticipation. I spent the whole ride imagining every possible way Nate might give me a good-night kiss.
We pulled into his driveway and he turned off the car.
My insides felt fluttery. I was most likely less than one minute from having my first real kiss ever.
"Want to come in?" Nate asked.
"In ... the house?"
"Yeah. Come on." He got out and started walking toward the front door.
I followed him. I couldn't stay in his car by myself. It was weird, though. It was eleven. Were Nate's parents really okay with me coming in at eleven? Were we sneaking in behind their backs? And if we were, what did that mean?
I got nervous all over again. If Nate just wanted to kiss me, he could do that in the driveway. Inside seemed like a place to do more. I was pretty sure Nate wasn't a virgin. Did he expect us to have sex? I was not ready to have sex.
I mentally shook myself. Why was I imagining the worst? Nate might be totally fine with just kissing. Going inside didn't have to mean sex—it could just mean more than one kiss. And if I liked real kissing as much as I liked him kissing my neck, I'd want more than one kiss. Plus, inside we could be comfortable, like on a couch. What could be bad about that?
The foyer of the house was dark but glowed from ambient light in other rooms. Nate wrapped his arms around my waist.
"You look incredibly hot," he said. He pushed me gently backwards until my back was against the wall. Then he leaned in and kissed me.
I had always wondered why people closed their eyes when they kissed. Now I knew: they can't help it. The feeling is too overwhelming: the taste, the touch, the smell, even the sound. The sense of sight had to be excluded, or it wouldn't be possible to function.
I wondered if Nate could tell I'd never kissed before, but I quickly stopped caring. His lips were moving on mine, his tongue was deliciously inside my mouth, his hands were running over my back, my hair, my—
Suddenly he pulled away. I fought to catch my breath.
"Let's smoke," he said.
"What?" I gasped, but he was already walking into the next room. I followed, trying not to stagger.
We wound up in some kind of media room, with two huge couches, two overstuffed armchair rockers, a coffee table, a massive tower of endless electronic equipment, and a giant flat-screen plasma TV. Every piece of furniture was