“It’s so hot the way you’re wearing my clothes, smelling of me.”
My fingers circle the small purple-blue bruises I left on her hips earlier, watching her skin shiver like my fingertips carry electric pulses. Sitting upright, I light the joint, the flame briefly illuminating the cramped space, its pungent aroma filling the car as I inhale deeply.
I spread her legs wider, ignoring the awkward angle as I blow the smoke inside her, watching her delicate flesh flush pink in response.
“Are you getting my vagina stoned?”
“Vagina,” I scoff, the word clinical in the intimate space. “No. But I thought your glistening wet cunt might appreciate it.”
I rest the joint in the tin’s lid, careful of the glowing ember, then lower my mouth to Ophelia’s centre, exploring her sweet entrance until the car gently rocks with her movements.
“No,” she protests, her palm striking my shoulder when I pull away just before her muscles begin to flutter. Her hands are fists against her forehead, chest rising in short, sharp pants that fog the windows. “Not again.”
The blunt’s gone cold, but I relight it, and crawl up her squirming body, exhaling into her mouth.
Her lips part beneath mine, tongue darting out to wet them as I withdraw. Her glasses feel like a barrier, and I remove them, placing her hands on the frames as I set them aside, ensuring sheknows their location. I continue until the ember burns my lips, then pinch it out between damp fingertips.
“If you jerk off again and leave me hanging,” she says, her voice strained, “so help me, I will push you straight off that cliff.”
My laughter vibrates through her skin as my mouth explores her body. Sliding inside her feels like shedding an unwanted layer, being reborn into something new and whole.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her inner walls gripping me tightly. Pleasure floods my brain, drowning out everything but sensation. Her warmth, her softness, her scent.
Though her lips are swollen and raw, I can’t stop claiming them, each kiss marking her as mine with the metallic taste of blood and the lingering sweetness of smoke.
I groan against her collarbone, my spine protesting the awkward position, yet I can’t stop twisting to taste new parts of her, to stroke her skin, to tangle my fingers in her hair and tug gently.
Her body tightens around me, muscles pulsing, catching up with the releases I denied her. I claim her mouth, sucking at her tongue, holding every part of her I can reach when my own climax quickly follows.
I pulse inside her until I’m completely spent, our mingled scents heavy in the air.
It’s transcendent, yet somehow insufficient. I want to inhabit her completely, to see through her eyes, to exist in her skin, our minds and bodies fused into one being.
“What the fuck are you doing to me?” I mutter into the curve of her neck, groaning when her hips shift. I’m already hard again, already moving within her until I force myself away, rolling off before immediately pulling her close, our sweat-slicked bodies cooling in the breeze.
Nothing about her ever goes according to plan, yet the chaos she brings resonates deep within me. My fingers trace thecurve of her ankle, pinning her against the blanket with gentle pressure.
“We should get dressed,” I murmur, and immediately contradict myself, my leg twisting over hers. The warmth of her skin heats the blood in my veins.
But if I want this conversation, it has to be now. Time, which has always moved at a crawl, is suddenly speeding, and there’s a sharp drop ahead.
My body still pulses with reluctance but as my heartbeat settles, I move, fabric rustling as I adjust my clothes and press a kiss to her inner knee. “Grab your glasses and come look at the view.”
A dark noise rumbles from the back of her throat—half protest, half acquiescence—but she obeys, sliding into my oversize boxers and buttoning her shirt. Picking her careful way across ground where the wind has stripped away all but the most stubborn vegetation.
The warning plank forms a rest for my back, the wind rich with salt and seaweed from the crashing waves below, sharp pine from the nearby forest. I spread the rough wool of the backseat rug around her shoulders, feeling her gradually melt against me.
“Is Craig the reason you want to die?” Her body turns to stone beneath my arm, but I hold firm. “Because if he is, I found him. I could easily hurt him for you if you want.”
My whisper barely carries above the distant crash of waves.
“That’s the reason you told me his name, isn’t it?”
Ophelia huffs out a breath. “It was a Freudian slip.”
“But isn’t that betraying what you really want?” I nudge my hip into hers. “You’re making my point.”
She plucks at a dried stalk of grass, methodically dismantling it. The seedhead comes apart between her fingers, wind catchingthe tiny particles and spiralling them away. “Is having that on my conscience meant to make me want to live?”
