hair sticking to my mouth,
fucking the music and this moment
before it all fucks me first.
Then I feel him ten to twenty feet away.
Andrew's kicked back in the booth,
one arm slung along the backrest,
face sculpted by intensity,
a glass sweating in his fist.
The whole floor falls away as he’s staring into me?—
gaze so deep it’s a hand to my throat,
it's a mouth-to-mouth,
afuck-you-don’t-move
as he grinds into me?—
then time speeds,
catching back up with the beat.
He doesn’t blink.
Neither do I.
We’re cuffed to each other.
People pass between us, bodies blur,
but I still see the way his throat moves when he swallows hard.
The way his knee bounces.
I drag my hand up my thigh,
fingertips teasing the hem of my dress,
up my hip,
up my side,
flashing him a little smile.
Sweet. Venom-licked. Vanilla-ChapStick lips.
First he breaks.
Then heblushes.
Then he laughs, head down,
