Chapter Nineteen #2
“You sure?” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
I nod. Words are impossible.
He drags me in for another kiss, slower this time, as if he wants to memorize every part, every angle, every taste. His fingers slide up my thigh, slow, asking. I answer by shifting closer, by letting my head fall back and my chest open up, by not hiding how much I’m shaking.
He says my name as if he’s never said it before. “Molly…”
I don’t want to hear the rest, so I kiss him again. My hands work their way under his shirt, and he laughs, low and wild, into my ear.
“Not what I expected,” he says when he gets his breath. “But not complaining.”
I want to say something back, something wicked and clever, but I can’t. I’m lost in the heat of it. My body is running the show now, my brain somewhere far behind, gasping to catch up.
I kiss him deeper. My lips can’t get close enough to his, to him. I take hold of his shirt and pull at it, lifting it, and he shifts, letting me take it off him. My body is on fire with desire and a feeling that I’m scared to name.
“Your pants,” I whisper, running my tongue along his ear. “Let’s get them off.”
He doesn't argue. His hands find his belt, and I shift back just enough to give him room, my knees pressing into the center console, the gearshift digging into my calf.
The sedan wasn't built for this — wasn't built for two people trying to crawl inside each other in the cramped front seat — but I don't care.
I don't care about anything except the sound of his breathing and the way his hands shake when he touches me.
The belt comes loose. I help with the zipper, impatient, clumsy, and he laughs again, that low, broken sound that makes my chest ache.
"Slow down," he murmurs against my throat.
"No."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. "Molly, what is it?"
"I said no." I grab the back of his neck and drag him back to me. "I don't want slow."
Something shifts in his expression — surrender, maybe, or recognition. He stops fighting me. His hands find the hem of my shirt and slide underneath, palms flat against my ribs, and the touch is so warm I actually gasp.
The windows are fogging up. The world outside disappears, reduced to smears of light and shadow, and all that exists is this — his mouth on my collarbone, my fingers in his hair, the impossible geometry of two bodies trying to fit in a space designed for groceries and commutes.
I manage to get my jeans down past my hips.
He helps, laughing when my boot catches on the steering wheel, cursing when his elbow hits the horn and it blares once, sharp and startling in the silence.
We freeze for a second, then I'm laughing too, breathless and wild, and he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"This is insane," he says.
"Yeah." I kiss the corner of his mouth. "It is."
“And I hate this fucking car.”
“Me too.”
He pulls me closer, adjusts the angle, and then we're moving together, finding a rhythm that shouldn't work but does. The car rocks gently on its suspension. My breath fogs the window beside his head. I press my palm flat against the glass and watch the condensation bloom around my fingers.
It's not graceful. It's not romantic. It's desperate and awkward and perfect in a way I can't explain. Every time he moves, I feel it in my spine, in my teeth, in the hollow place behind my ribs that I've spent years trying to pretend doesn't exist.
“Harder,” I moan. “Fuck me harder.”
I shift, feeling the thickness of his cock inside me hit somewhere just right. Groaning, I clutch him tight, holding his face to my tits while I grind against him.
His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, and I don't care. I want the marks. I want proof that this happened, that I let someone in, that I stopped running long enough to feel something real.
"Molly, oh fuck, you feel so good," he groans against my skin, and the way he says my name — like a prayer, like a curse, like something sacred and profane all at once — makes my whole body clench around him.
I rock faster, chasing the edge, chasing the oblivion that waits just beyond it. The car creaks and sways. My thighs burn from the angle, from bracing myself against the dash, but I don't stop. Can't stop.
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my moans, giving me his. We're a tangle of limbs and breath and want, and somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is dangerous — not the sex, but what it means. What I'm letting it mean.
"Right there," I gasp, and he shifts, adjusting the angle, and suddenly everything goes white at the edges.
I shatter.
It's not quiet. It's not pretty. I cry out against his shoulder, teeth scraping skin, my whole body seizing around him as the orgasm tears through me like wildfire. He follows seconds later, hands bruising my hips, a rough sound wrenched from his throat that I feel more than hear.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe, tangled together in the cramped front seat, the windows completely opaque with condensation. My heart is a wild thing in my chest, trying to escape. His forehead rests against my collarbone, his breath hot and ragged against my skin.
I should pull away. I should make a joke, deflect, retreat behind my walls where it's safe.
Instead, I press my lips to his temple and whisper the most dangerous words I know.
"I love you."