He shoves his keys into his pocket and pulls out his smokes, lighting up another clove.
“Just not,” I say.
“Let me guess. You’re bad news. Tough guy from the wrong side of the tracks. Wrapped up with the bad guys. Don’t want me to ruin my life getting involved with you?” He takes a drag and puffs the smoke out between us.
“One of those is true.”
“I’m not a kid. I can make my own decisions.”
I remember his tongue flat on the bottom of my cock and the slit of my dick in the back of his throat. “You think you can.”
He scoffs and pushes off the wall, advancing on me. I close my eyes and steady myself. Declan is not going to make it easy for me. I think about him putting out his cigarette, shutting the fuck up, and going back inside.
He takes another step.
I think harder.
One more step.
I move back and focus all my energy on Declan leaving me alone, but before I know it, my back is against the wall and he’s on me. His chest against mine, his thighs rubbing against my legs. He did at least put the cigarette out, but now his fingers are teasing at the hem of my shirt and skirting over my abs.
“Declan,” I warn.
He stills and drums his hands over my hips, not moving forward, but not retreating. Like he’s waiting for me to give him the okay.
“I won’t do it if you don’t want, but I really think you want.”
He’s so close, I can taste the cinnamon on his lips.
“I do want,” I whisper, and he kisses me.
He crushes our lips together and his tongue slides into my mouth. He traces my teeth, not shying away from the two that are unnaturally sharp, and he pushes his tongue deeper.
I think that I want him to bite my lip, and he does, but I’m not convinced that I had anything to do with it. I think I want him to do it again, but he doesn’t. I’m hard for him, and confused, and that ache sets in my bones again; that painful, all-consuming want to do what I was made to do.
“You taste like a dream,” he says quietly, breaking the kiss.
“And what’s that taste like to you?”
I drop my head against the wall behind me and settle my hands on his hips, much in the same way he’s holding me.
“It would sound silly if I said it out loud.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I assure you.”
“You taste like…comfort.”
“I didn’t know comfort had a taste.”
“Neither did I, but that’s how you taste, or that’s how I feel when I taste you.” He licks my bottom lip and smirks at me, like he knows he’s breaking me down. “What do I taste like?”
“Like your cloves.”
He nods, encouraging me to go on because we both know there’s more.
“Like cinnamon and sweat, and tears.” He groans a little and swirls his hips around. “You taste like I could get lost in that mouth of yours for a lifetime.”
The silence after my admission is heavy, and I know he thinks it’s allegorical, but it’s the truth, and that’s why I keep trying to leave.
