Uncertainty that I want her to have either is what pushes me to press my tongue harder.
Faster.
Snatch away any and all opportunities to have thoughts.
Or ideas.
Or air.
Or anything that isn’t fucking me.
All of a sudden, a loud throat clearing hits our ears; however, we don’t immediately separate.
We continue to hang on for dear life, chests ceaselessly heaving, desperate to soothe the internal burning, foreheads lightly resting against one another, relying undeniably on each other for strength.
I just had the best kiss of my entire life.
And I don’t even know her name.
The second throat clearing successfully sends our stares in tandem to the larger built, ivory skinned male hanging out a little too close for fucking comfort.
Okay.
Truthfully.
Too fucking close.
One more inch and my fist will help relocate him to another galaxy far, far away.
Yeah.
Different fandom.
But still.
“Little space, dude,” I unhappily grunt at the stranger.
His dark brows dart down in displeasure at the same time his Klingon approved jaw shape lowers to bite back; unfortunately for him, my fake girlfriend’s feigned surprise cuts him off, “Ohmygod,Wheeler.” She slyly removes her finger from my skin, unknowingly pouring fuel on the sparked rage caused by his interruption. “What are you doing here?” I gradually lower my hands yet allow them to indulge in a gentle brushing of her shoulders and arms, a brushing that gets me cockily smirking due to the shivers it sends down her spine. “Star Trek’snever been your thing.”
“But you always have been, peaches,” he smoothly states in return, large palms sliding into his jeans.
“But she won’t ever be again,” I declare without an inch of softness in my delivery.
He shifts his crystal stare to me prior to informing, “Wheeler Gentry.”
“Justus Reese.”
Neither of us reach for the other’s hand.
Why should we?
This isn’t post a less than hostile company takeover in Montana.
Or a round of golf for a philanthropy photo op in So Cal.
I don’tneedto shake his hand.
The cameras aren’t rolling.
