Her hands fist my shirt, and she pulls me even closer, not leaving a single inch of space between us. Her breasts push into my chest, and I can feel her nipples harden through the material of her dress, which leads me to believe she’s not wearing a bra.
Fuck me.
I groan against her mouth, the sound ripped out of me, and she turns to putty in my hands. Heat floods my chest, blood immediately rushing to my cock, and I ignore the fact that I amsogone for this beautiful, amazing girl.
My mouth finds her jaw, her ear. “Harlow,” I breathe, and her name tastes like a promise I’m not allowed to make out loud quite yet.
She kisses me again like she can’t stand the space, and I understand that kind of desperation all too well. The kind that looks like need but is really just you trying to stay afloat. Her back hits the wall, and the coldness makes her arch into me as she lifts up her leg and wraps it around my hip while starting to grind against me.
My hand lands on the wall behind her, and I feel a light switch. I shift, pulling away from her just long enough to turn it on, but she raises a hand to stop mine.
Then she whispers, “No.”
The word isn’t just a request. It’s a tell. It’s a vulnerability wrapped in one syllable.
My hands still immediately.
“You want to keep the lights off?” I ask, softly.
She nods, eyes desperate. “Please.”
I come back to her like I never left.
“Tell me what you need, baby,” I murmur, my mouth against her jaw, because I’m not guessing with her. Not with this. I want to know what she wants, what she craves. What she’s been dreaming about if her dreams are anything like mine on the rare nights I have them.
“You,” she breathes.
I come back to her mouth, slower this time, deeper, one hand flat against the wall beside her head and the other finding its way up her leg to her waist—settling there, steady, anchoring us both. She kisses me back with quiet desperation that mirrors my own. Her hands untuck my shirt from my pants, and her hand glides up the bare skin of my chest, leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake.
My body is already making its position very clear.
I shift my weight forward, slipping one of my legs between hers, and her breath stutters against my lips.
I pull back slightly, quickly scanning her face. “Okay?”
“Yes,” she says immediately, no hesitation, just certainty, and her hips rock into me in a way I don’t think she fully chooses. Just her body continuing to move as if without permission.
I press into her once, slow and deliberate, keeping most of my weight on the hand braced against the wall. She makes asound that sends a zing down my spine, and my cock somehow getting even harder, straining against the fabric of my pants.
I grip the wall harder.
My mouth finds her neck, and she tips her head to give me better access. I can feel her heartbeat under my lips, racing to match mine. My free hand slides from her waist to her hip, gathering the fabric of her dress in my grip so I can feel the shape of her better, the warmth radiating through it.
She rocks against me again, this time by her own choosing and even more forcefully.
I groan quietly into her neck, and she does it again—a slow roll of her hips, finding the pressure, finding the angle—and her breath goes short.
“There. Oh god, right there,” she breathes, barely audible, almost to herself.
I press back against her, and she exhales hard, her fingers curling into my shoulders, and her head drops back against the wall.
God, she’s fucking perfect.
She’s taking what she needs, and I am more than happy to help her chase the release she’s looking for.
Meanwhile, I am reciting our entire playbook in my head to avoid coming in my pants.
Line combinations. Power play units. The ice resurfacing schedule. Anything.
