And then he kisses me.
His mouth hits mine with the force of everything he's been holding back forweeks. No hesitation, no careful approach. Just his hands coming up to frame my face and his lips on mine like he's been starving for this and has finally, finally decided to stop pretending he isn't.
I gasp against him and he swallows it, and then his tongue slides against mine, warm and slow and sure.
My knees actually buckle. The only thing keeping me upright is the wall at my back and his body against my front, solid and hot, smelling like sandalwood and whiskey.
I’ve thought about what it would feel like to be kissed by him a thousand times.
It's better than I imagined. It's not even close.
I grab the front of his flannel with both fists. He makes a low sound against my mouth that I feel in my spine.
He tastes like Jack and Coke. My drink. He stole a sip of my drink and now I'm tasting it back from his lips, the sweetness of it mixed with the warmth of him.
He tears his lips from mine for half a second, just to breathe, and I feel him exhale against my lips. Unsteady. Like that kiss knocked him sideways too.
Then he comes back, kissing me deeper. His thumb traces along my jaw, the roughness of his fingertip against my smooth skin setting me alight.
When we finally break apart for real we're both breathing hard. His eyes open and find mine and they're dark and unguarded in a way I've never seen them.
“Don't go home with that guy,” he says. “He doesn't deserve you.”
“I wasn't going to go home with him,” I say. “Even if he did. Which he definitely doesn't.”
He pulls me in until there's no space left between us. Until I can feel his cock hard through his jeans.
“There's only one man you're going home with tonight,” he says. “Even if I don't deserve you either.”
And then his lips land on mine.
He kisses me until I'm breathless and then he keeps going, pinning me to the wall with the full length of his body.
As he drags his mouth from mine and down the side of my throat, I tip my head back against the wall. The neon light against the wall casts everything in a surreal pink glow.
“Don't go on any more dates,” he says. “Not while you’re living with me.” His teeth graze lightly and I grip his shoulders tighter. “I can't fucking stand it.”
I can barely keep my focus. Not when my body’s attuned to him like this. The muscular plane of his chest, his thigh pressing between mine. The unmistakable length of his hard cock jutting against my belly.
“Why?” I breathe.
I want to hear him say it. I need to hear him admit what he’s been denying.
He lifts his head. His eyes are dark and his jaw is clenched. A man who burned down every last excuse he built and is standing in the rubble of them.
“Because.” His hand slides slowly down over my waist, my hip, until it reaches my ass and cups it, pulling me harder against him. “I want you all to myself.”
His mouth captures mine again, deep and hungry, one hand in my hair and one on my ass and the wall solid at my back, and I stop thinking about anything at all.
Then I put both hands flat on his chest and push just enough to create an inch of space, to give myself a chance at thinking clearly.
He lets me. Stays close, forehead tipped toward mine, breathing uneven.
“You’re an asshole,” I whisper. Except he’s not, not really. He leaves coffee for me every morning and makes dinner for me every evening. He opens every car door for me and holds me in his arms. Takes me to meet his family. Shows me how a song comes together. Worries about me and listens to me and…
“I know, baby. But I’m an asshole who’s absolutely fucking crazy about you.”
That helps. More than I ought to let it, maybe.
