Music pours through its cracks.
Walker brings one hand to my hip and the other to my cheek. "Why'd you leave the other morning?"
"You hate me."
He shakes his head. "No. I want to hate you. But I can't."
"What the hell is this?"
"You were supposed to give it back, Iris. You were supposed to make it stop."
I swallow hard.
"Nothing makes sense to me anymore."
"Then let me explain."
He nods. "After."
"After?" Oh. After.
He presses his forehead to mine. "This is the only thing that makes sense." His fingers dig into my hip. "Tell me you need me."
"I do."
"That you want this." His voice drops to something equal parts demanding and desperate. "Tell me you want to come on my cock in this dirty alley."
"Tell me it isn't the last time."
"I can't." His fingers dig into my skin. "I want to listen." He drags his lips over my chin, neck, earlobe. "After that, I don't know."
That's fair.
Or maybe that's my libido talking.
At the moment, I don't really care.
He smells so good. Like the soap in his shower. Like Walker.
I reach for the reasonable part of my brain. "Someone will see."
He traces the hem of my dress. "Do you care?"
"No."
"Did you go out looking for someone to take home?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"No one is you." I brush my cheek against his.
His fingers skim my inner thighs. "Tell me you want this, sweetness."
I nod.
"Tell me you want to come on my cock."