High enough that the heat of my palm brands him through his slacks.
Low enough that he can still pretend this is innocent.
His muscle locks under my touch. Granite.
This is the kind of tension that ends with teeth marks and apologies neither of us will mean.
He parks beside my car, engine still growling like it knows what’s coming and refuses to leave us unsupervised.
“Thank you,” I whisper, soft and sugary.
He turns. Really looks at me.
That look. The one that says I’m about to throw every good intention I have into the fucking ocean for you.
I unbuckle slowly.
Let the seatbelt slither across my chest, dragging the fabric of my sundress tight for one deliberate second.
His gaze drops to my breasts, snaps back up, guilty and starving.
“Juliet…” My name cracks in his throat.
I lean in.
Just a fraction.
Just enough that the air between us thickens, turns humid.
His breath stutters against my lips.
“Can I… take you out again?”
Poor darling.
I want to bite that question off his tongue and swallow it whole.
“Yes,” I breathe, so close the word brushes his mouth.
His hand lifts. Slow. Shaking. Cups my cheek like I’m made of glass and dynamite.
Warm. Careful.
His thumb strokes once, twice, tracing the edge of my lip.
“Juliet,” he says again, rougher, like tasting me is inevitable.
It is.
I’ve waited long enough.
I close the last inch.
Our lips meet soft.
Then not soft at all.
He kisses like a man who’s been starving in secret: careful at first, lips barely parted, asking permission he’s terrified I’ll revoke.
