The moan is gasoline on a fire. Like he’d been waiting for that, some sign to do more, Bastian’s hand on my hip slides up to mold against my ribs. My heart is thundering against it. I wonder if he can feel how hard it’s beating. Or how my skin is damp and sweaty.
If he notices. If he minds.
I wonder what he feels like, too. So, seizing a chance I’ll probably never get again, I comb one hand through the curly mane at the back of his head and rest the other against his bicep.
That feeling of thick, curly hair between my fingers and a huge, hot, firm arm against my palm is just so indefinablymalethat I moan again.
I feel tiny in his lap like this. Utterly breakable in the best way possible. The ants from this morning are back again, but they’re not angry or anxious this time. On the contrary, now, they’re tittering with glee as they run skittering across my scalp, down my spine, in scattered patterns between my thighs where the friction of Bastian’s leg is just begging me to grind up against it.
I’ve had sex before. It wasn’t with Ricky Bowen, fortunately. It also wasn’t good and it wasn’t memorable. But it did technically meet the “Tab A in Slot B” requirements that mean my V-card has been set aflame.
This, though, feels like the beginning of a whole different thing. The lead-up to losing my virginity had none of this moany, groany anticipation, where every touch sets off fireworks in places that are nowhere near erogenous.
Bastian rubbing my ribs shouldn’t be sexy, but it is.
Bastian cupping the back of my head shouldn’t be sexy, but itis.
Bastian using one thumb to tilt my chin up so he can kiss me better, the wayhewants, Bastian rearranging my limbs so I can straddle his knee, Bastian rumbling his version of a moan low in his chest, something I feel as much as I hear?—
Well, okay, yes, I could see how that could all be objectively described as sexy. Point is, he elevates it to a whole ‘nother level.
It’s brainwashing, pure and simple. Little by little, I can feel myself leaving my body, abandoning all the snark and pessimism that gets me through most days. It’s a kiss that sets me free from myself. It’s a kiss that makes me believe in a higher power.
That’s probably why, like all good things in my life, it ends before it can really get started.
Just as Bastian’s fingers find the edge of my bra cup and start to perhaps consider dipping inside, to where my nipples are hard and aching…
… the lights come on.
The fluorescent lights flicker to life with all the subtlety of a flash grenade. Bastian and I spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted.
In a way, I guess we have been.
My ass hits the elevator floor with an undignified thump. Bastian scrambles backward until his shoulders collide with the opposite wall. We stare at each other across the three feet of space that might as well be the Grand Canyon, both of us breathing hard.
I take a mental Polaroid. His hair is a disaster.Idid that. His lips are swollen and red. I didthat, too. His shirt is untucked on one side, and there’s a wrinkle across his chest where my hand was gripping the fabric.
All me.
Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure I look like I’ve been punted down a wind tunnel. My blouse is still ripped open at the collar, courtesy of Bastian’s unorthodox CPR, and my bra strap has slipped down my shoulder. It’s somewhat south of the dignified look I was going for when choosing my outfit this morning.
The elevator gives a cheerful, nonchalantding, as if it didn’t just trap us in the dark long enough for us to completely lose our minds.
Then it starts moving.
Down.
Toward the lobby.
Where, presumably, there will be people.
People—witnesses—who will absolutely notice that Bastian Hale and his project manager look like they’ve been doing… exactly what they’ve been doing.
“Fuck,” Bastian breathes.
“Yeah,” I agree. “‘Fuck,’ indeed.”
We both lunge into action simultaneously. I yank my blouse closed over my exposed bra, holding the torn fabric together with one hand while frantically smoothing my hair with the other.
