Dexter doesn’t seem surprised by my revelation. Rather, his eyes gleam with an excitement only found in confirming one’s suspicions. “Your teeth, eh?” He smirks, raking his gaze down my body and back up to my lips. I can tell he’s picturing what I’ve just described. Me, kissing down his neck, sliding my hand down his chest as I slowly sink to my knees in front of him.
I gulp.
“Um, I didn’t mean to say that.” Truth. I didn’t deny that I said it, or thought it, or felt it. But I definitely did not mean to say any of it out loud, and especially not in front of him.
“Please, continue,” he says, gesturing that he’d like nothing more than to hear more of my secret fantasies concerning him.
I shake my head. I can’t open my mouth again. Who knows what I’d say, what I’d confess?
Dexter leans over the center console, inching closer to my face. His eyes once again fixate on my mouth, and between his invasion of my personal space and the smell of his cologne, I give myself approximately five seconds before I close the gap and kiss him.
Dexter
Putain, alors. I need to kiss her. I need to kiss her more than I need my next breath. She touches herself to thoughts ofme. Cravesme. Fantasizes about dropping to her knees in front ofme.Baise-moi.
“Alis,” I beckon, now less than two inches away from her. I scan overher expression. Her eyes are locked on my lips, her breaths grow heavier. Every few seconds she closes her eyes, tightly, and then reopens them as if to shake herself out of the haze of lust she’s currently swimming in.
She doesn’t respond to my saying her name, so I lift my pointer finger to her chin and tilt her face to meet my eyes. “Alis,” I repeat, even more softly than before. I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve wanted to kiss a woman more than I do right now.
“Dexter,” she breathes out. A whisper filled with longing and the acquiescence I’ve craved for months. I guide her lips to mine, finger still under her chin, and press my mouth against hers. She’s soft, supple. Her kiss feels like a sigh of relief, as if she’s letting go of all the pent-up tension she’s held onto since August and is relaxing into the fulfillment of her desires.
Sliding my hand along her jawline, I deepen the kiss, holding her to me in a way that is still gentle, but undoubtedly possessive. Her lips part and our tongues meet, and just like the night in the bar, I’m overcome with a sense of belonging, of home. I know our potential for passion is exponential and will combust in the right environment, but right now kissing Alis feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket, like sinking into my favorite armchair after a long day, like opening the cover to my favorite book and reveling in it once again, even knowing every detail of the story.
Alis’s hand slides up my forearm to my wrist and she holds on tightly, possessively, letting me know she doesn’t want me to pull away. Just when I consider pulling back, Alis places her other hand on the back of my neck and weaves her fingers into my hair, gripping tightly and pressing my mouth more firmly against hers.
Holy shit. What is this woman doing to me? And who knew quiet, private Alis had a dominant streak in her. She lets go of my wrist, tangling that hand into my hair as well. She’s laying her claim on me. Owning me. I can feel every ounce of her suppressed feelings tearing free from their confines and pouring into this kiss.
Thank God I was right. Thank God I didn’t misinterpret this pull, this magnetism between us. And thank, fucking, God I took her offcampus. There’s no way she’d kiss me like this had we stayed in the faculty parking lot.
I need air. I need more of Alis — so much fucking more of Alis, but reluctantly I peel my lips off hers and inhale the scent of her surrounding me, infiltrating my car. I press my forehead to hers, taking deep breaths as I try to calm my racing heart and raging erection. No words can describe how badly I want to take her home, remove every stitch of clothing from her body, and kiss her everywhere.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and I’m momentarily torn from my fantasy of Alis laid out on my bed. “Sorry?” I ask. “For what? You did nothing wrong.”
We’re still whispering, as if speaking any louder will shatter the moment. Alis pulls her forehead from mine and meets my gaze, unguarded affection like I haven’t seen since the first night we met shining in her eyes. Then, she snorts.
She. Snorts. And laughs, mind you. But after the initial snort, she’s lost all sense of decorum and falls back into her seat, cracking up.
I am so confused right now. How did we go from whispers and intimacy to Alis Gilmore falling into a fit of snort giggles in my passenger seat. I don’t say anything — don’t know that I could say anything at present. Eventually, she takes in a deep breath, wiping tears from her eyes as she comes down from whatever is going on inside her mind.
Still laughing, albeit sans snorting, Alis replies, “I’m sorry I deprived myself of kissing you for so long. I mean, my God, Dexter. That was…”
My smile is so big, my chest tight with anticipation. “That was. It definitely was.”
“Five stars. First class. Ten/ten recommend to anyone considering,” she exclaims. “Well, scratch that last one.”
“You wouldn’t recommend kissing me to anyone else?” I tease. I know what she’snotsaying, what she said so clearly with her hands fisted in my hair while we kissed. But I want her to say it. I want herto use words and tell me she wants this. More than just “I like you” or “I have feelings for you.” I want to be hers, and for her to be mine. Only hers. Only mine.
“No, I would not recommend anyone else kiss you,” she states, still skirting what I want from her.
“And, pray tell, why not?” I mock offense, and add, “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy kissing me. At my lips’ touch you blossomed for me like a flower and the incarnation was complete.”
“Well, Gatsby, suffice it to say I don’t share. You look at me like all women want to be looked at by a man, and I can’t stomach the thought of you sharing those gazes and kisses with anyone else.”
I lean toward her once again and place a soft kiss on her lips. “You make me feel uncivilized, Alis. No one else has ever made me feel this way.”
She smiles up at me, happiness and hopefulness gleaming in her eyes. “As much as I’d love to continue bantering Fitzgerald back and forth, I think we need to eat, and talk. We really, really need to talk.”
She is right. I know she’s right. My dick, however, has zero interest in going inside that restaurant and having a conversation that could very possibly lead to Alis overthinking and overcomplicatingus.
