Love the One You Hate

It’s the least smooth I’ve ever been. There’s no proper lead-in, no preamble. It’s not my fault though. I didn’t initiate this. It just…happened.

She freezes up at first, no doubt in shock, but her lips are so warm and soft and she shivers when my hand snakes up into her hair. I goad her into kissing me gently. I do the exact thing I told Rhett I wouldn’t do earlier—I take advantage of a girl I want more than my next breath.

Eventually, she softens in my arms, and those gentle kisses turn hungrier. My hands are in her hair, around her neck, cradling her chin so I can tilt her just the way I want her.

She reaches down, and there’s the telltale sound of a seatbelt releasing then an awkward scramble of limbs as I tug her off her seat. There’s barely any space for us to move, but I get her on me, her knees on either side of my thighs.

We’re wedged on the seat together, and if there’s pain, I don’t feel it. I feel her on me, moving, grinding, sweeping her hips in time with our mouths. I grab ahold of her waist and it must be painful how tightly I grip her, how relentlessly I hold her down onto me…how much I want to keep her.

My mouth seeks hers again, harder this time, and she moans.

The sound sends blood south and I know she can feel me there rocking against her. Hard. Wanting.

We’re careful to keep reality at bay. We don’t break apart. We don’t talk. We consume each other until my car feels like a furnace, like she and I might combust.

I take it further and wait for her to stop me, to give some signal that I’ve crossed an invisible line. My hands find the hem of her flimsy dress and then they slide underneath, up against her smooth thighs, her taut stomach, quivering with nerves. I slide my hands up higher until I feel her bikini-clad breasts fill my hands.

Every curse word known to man flutters through my mind. Holy-fucking-hallelujah. I tease her and I grip her and then that smooth material is tugged up and out of my way so I can feel her bare skin in my hands, the real thing.

There are things in life that feel so good you know they must be bad.

Touching Maren feels like that, like I’m defiling an angel, kissing my way straight to hell.

We should stop, I think fleetingly, right before she moans again. My palms brush back and forth over her breasts, and she must be sensitive there because I feel her tiny flinches of pleasure and the way her legs tighten around mine instinctively. I rock up against her, trying to alleviate my aching need.

More, more, more, we seem to say with our mouths as we continue. Why should this moment ever end? Why shouldn’t I die just like this? With her sensual body on top of me, reminding me what it feels like to be alive?

Her mouth kisses a path along my chin, to the spot just below my right ear. I lean back and let her have better access to me, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever felt—her taking control, grinding on me and swirling her hips. I thrust up against her like a teenager, close to coming just from this.

“Maren.”

Her name rushes out of me on a whispered moan, and suddenly, she stops moving.

She’s perfectly frozen against me, her breath hitting my neck before she pulls her mouth away from my skin.

I don’t move. I wait to follow her lead.

Her chest shakes and she releases a heavy exhalation. My heart splinters and I reach down to grip her face so I can pull her back and ask why she’s crying, but when I see her smile and her eyes squeezed shut, I realize she’s laughing.

“Oh my god. Did we seriously just do that?!” she asks, adorably blinking one of her eyes open to inspect me. I have a feeling she was hoping I would have disappeared before she looked again.

I don’t answer. Words fail me at the moment.

Then she glances down at herself—at where I can’t help but continue to look too—and sees her heavy breasts straining against her nearly see-through dress, and she laughs even more.

Fucking hell.

“Oh my god!” she repeats as she reaches up to fix her bikini top so it covers her again. I have half a mind to argue with her, but I don’t think it would go over well.

“Are you upset?” I venture.

“Upset? No!” She looks baffled by the idea. “Are you?”

“Of course not.”

Jesus, I’m still hard. Upset isn’t even in my vocabulary at the moment.

It’s like I’ve telegrammed my thoughts to her because her cheeks turn into two bright cherries as she fidgets on my lap.