Chapter 7 #2
He pulls me back towards the Shot Glass, the satisfying clack of my boots the soundtrack to our mischief.
As we near, I see the lights are off, and the place is closed, impressed by his attention to detail.
He gets to the door, fumbling with his keys, but the moment is catching back up to us, and I don’t want to wait anymore.
I crash into him, nuzzling and biting the nape of his neck, angry we aren’t already inside.
I think I hear him mumble something about a cot in the back, but then I hear the lock turn, and I’m on him like he’s a wounded gazelle and I’m the hungriest lioness in the jungle.
A snarl tears from my throat as my hands explore every inch of him, grasping his hips, tangling in his hair, scratching at his shoulders.
I bite at the corded muscle of his neck, not gently this time, marking him, tasting the salt on his skin.
All the while, he’s gripping me close, only illuminated by the few fairy lights still on in the bar and the light through the door before it finally closes with a boom.
To his credit, my prey is fierce, managing to collect me in his arms, cupping my thighs as my legs snake around his waist. The raw dominance of the action sends a molten wave of desire through me.
This is it. The chase, the capture. His grip on me is possessive, unapologetic, and I arch into it, grinding against him as he carries me through the unfamiliar labyrinth of the darkened bar.
I claim his mouth again in a messy, demanding collision, fueled by hours of anticipation.
There is no finesse left, only raw, unbridled need.
My fingers claw at the short hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to me, forcing the kiss deeper.
My tongue duels with his, not seeking permission but laying claim.
In this moment, I am not the poet-lover or the misunderstood monster.
I am the hunter, and he is my willing prey, my partner in beautiful chaos.
“Wherever you're taking me,” I whisper into his ear, “I hope you throw away the key.”
I cling to him as he lowers me, my body aching for the warmth of his embrace, even as my mind leaps toward the promise of his touch. The cool, cracked vinyl of the bar stool jolts my heated skin, but that sensation vanishes the instant his hands return, sliding up under my shirt.
His fingers trace the pale, jagged seams of the stitches along my spine, sending a jolt through me—not of pain, but of profound, shattering acceptance.
People flinch from them. He’s exploring them.
My breath hitches, and a soft, broken sound escapes my lips.
I lean into his touch, silently encouraging, baring not just my body but my entire history written in scars.
In response, my own hands become a map-maker on his torso.
My palms glide over the landscape of his chest, learning the topography of him.
I trace the swell of his pectoral muscles, my fingertips digging into the sensitive flesh, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart against my hand.
I follow the rigid line of his sternum, my nails scraping lightly, testing his resilience.
His shirt is an impediment, a barrier I can no longer tolerate.
With an impatient tug, I gather the fabric in my fists, yanking it upwards, my intent clear in the determined set of my jaw.
The fabric rips off in one beastly act, and the feeling is tremendous.
Not just in the fury pouring out of me, but in the way he leans into it, the gratefulness with which he accepts the destruction of his own clothes.
A pang of realization slashes through me as I reconcile the titanic form between my legs with the sensitive writer it contains.
He’s my counter, someone who can understand what it’s like to be defined by a burden he never asked for, hungry to chart a new path.
And the fact that he is surrendering to me, begging me to place my own fierce burden on him, makes it that much more arousing.
I laugh, a low, husky sound filled with dark delight as his raw honesty floods my senses.
My body heeds his request instantly, as I peel my own jacket and shirt free.
But there’s still too much fabric. My hands forge their way south with unerring purpose.
My palm flattens against the rigid muscles of his abdomen, feeling them contract and quiver under my touch.
My fingers explore the trail of hair below his navel, a teasing preview of the destination we're both hurtling towards.
My touch is confident, deliberate, mapping his arousal as my own builds to an unbearable crescendo.
The moment my fingers meet his pants, his find mine, and we are in a race to see who can please the other faster. I free myself first, my jeans catching on my boots, but his follow only a moment later, leaving us frozen as we take in the curves and lines of each other’s glorious naked form.
I expect him to lunge forward with renewed tenacity, the same burning I can still feel making me writhe as I look at the specimen I’m in the middle of claiming.
But something shifts, not reluctance, not withdrawal.
His eyes meet mine, and I see it. The shift is seismic.
The frantic heat in his gaze has transformed, deepened into something I am terrifyingly unprepared for.
It's something like reverence. Adoration. Worship.
My breath catches in my throat. A tremor starts in my hands and spreads through my entire body. My whole being is laid bare before him—not just the scarred flesh, but the wounded, hopeful soul that resides within it.
He sinks to his knees before me.
Every sarcastic retort, every demanding command dies on my lips.
Tears I hadn't realized were threatening, prick at the corners of my eyes.
My hand moves on its own, threading through his hair, not to guide or control, but simply to connect.
My legs part wider, a gesture not of demand, but of sudden, helpless surrender.
I want to linger in the moment, suspended in anticipation, but the thought burns away at the sensation of his first touch.
An electric shock, a current that arcs from the apex of my thighs directly to my stuttering heart.
I gasp, a sharp, desperate sound, and my grip on his hair tightens reflexively.
This isn't a tentative exploration. This is a deliberate, reverent worship.
Every flick of his tongue, every tender press of his lips, is a prayer offered not to a deity, but to the flawed, living, breathing woman before him.
My world shrinks to the exquisite reality of his mouth on me.
The tackiness of the vinyl beneath me, the faint smell of stale beer, the distant memory of a haunted house—it all dissolves.
There is only the dim light of the bar, the slick sound of his worship, and the fracturing bliss building within me.
When his tongue grazes the raised, puckered skin of a long-faded scar on my inner thigh, a sob of pure, unadulterated pleasure rips from my chest. He’s not avoiding the ugly parts; he’s celebrating them. Mapping my history with his mouth and rewriting it in the language of ecstasy.
My head falls back, my exposed throat arching towards the ceiling. As I gasp, “Manny... right there... don't stop…”
He continues, every movement making me keen until my back arches clean off the stool, a violent, involuntary bow strung taut with unbearable pleasure.
The dam breaks. A raw, guttural cry is torn from my lungs as waves of release crash over me, a tsunami that wipes clean every thought, every memory, every insecurity.
For a perfect, blinding moment, there is only oblivion. There is only this. There is only us.
The aftershocks are still shuddering through me, wracking my body with tremors, when I look down. My breath is coming in ragged, gulping pants. Through the sweat-damp strands of hair that cling to my forehead, my eyes find his.
The fire in his eyes, my servile and devoted priest kneeling at my altar, has ignited a conflagration within me. That's all it took—a single look.
The reverence of the moment shatters, consumed by a hungrier, more primal need. The tasting was exquisite. It was a prologue. But now we feast.
With a surge of renewed, ferocious strength, I use my grip on his hair to pull. It's not a suggestion; it's a command born of bone-deep craving. I haul him upward from the floor, pulling his magnificent body flush against mine.
“My turn,” I growl.