I can still hear the music from the bar, and people talking.
We’re not that far away.
Just one corner.
Just one person stumbling a little too far and the whole town will know.
“You don’t care that I’m not a gi—”
“Shut the fuck up!” I curse, my throat seizing.
Carey's breath hitches, his pelvis tilting further. “I’ve never cared.” He pushes his thigh up harder then sighs against my jaw; “I like it… I like you.”
He drags his fingers through the short hairs at the base of my skull.
His free hand dives beneath my jacket and wraps around my back so it’s not just me holding him hostage. No, he’s refusing to let me go as well.
I can feel the strength he has as he grinds against me.
The only thing separating us is fabric and the last shreds of moral dignity I have left.
His nose skates along my chin and I can feel his breath in my mouth.
I know he wants my lips against his. He’s searching for them, but it's the one thing I can't bring myself to give him.
I move first, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck, but it doesn’t allow me enough control so I slide into his hair. It’s so much softer than I ever imagined it to be as I grip it in my fist and tug his head back, exposing the long curve of his throat.
I dip my head and drag my lips along the fine stubble of his jaw.
He grabs my ass with both hands. The sensation of his fingers digging in—so rough and greedy—flings away every last excuse I have for not wanting this.
I grip at his hip and roll against him. Hard.
I want to ruin him.
I want him to remember it tomorrow, even if he pretends not to.
I press him into the bricks. Not gentle. Not asking for permission.
I can't remember ever wanting another body this badly.
Even in the past, there was always some measure of restraint. Yet with Carey, it’s like I’m losing him the longer I go without swallowing him whole. But he doesn’t care about the danger. He only knows that I’m still here, refusing to let him go; my body giving him mixed messages I don’t have the language to explain.
I run my palm up his chest, feeling the speed of his heartbeat.
My desire to drag him back to the shop and break every unspoken rule is so intense that I have to dig my teeth into his collarbone just to stop myself from shouting my hunger out loud.
He pulls me off—gripping my jaw in a way that screams his disapproval. Then he drags his nails over my collarbone in retaliation so deep I might have bruises in the morning.
His hip and thigh grind against me so expertly my legs nearly buckle.
Every time I take a breath, his grip tightens.
His forehead falls into the crook of my neck.
His hand forces its way between our bodies until he’s grabbing me.
There’s no hesitation in his movements.
