13 #3
My fingers inch up the back of his neck into his dark hair. He’s warm and solid, pulse beating a steady, thick rhythm under my thumb. We’re tucked into the back of the balcony now, shaded completely by the steep angles and low light.
Owen’s arms tighten around me, one hand trailing up to the center of my back, to the expanse of smooth skin above the edge of my chiffon bridesmaid’s dress.
The other hand takes hold of my waist, ardent fingers pressing warmly into ribs.
His gaze is molten lava beneath a hard lawyer of stone, pressure bubbling under the surface.
“Owen,” I breathe, so close but not close enough.
“This is a bad idea,” he says, eyes growing darker.
“Yes,” I say, fingers tightening in his hair.
“And you don’t like me.”
“Maybe not.” I shift forward until my lips can graze the shell of his ear. “But maybe right now I just want to feel good. Leave my head and live in my body.” I pull back until I can look at him again, brown eyes meeting blue ones. “Don’t you ever want that, too?”
His breath is ragged as he says, “All the fucking time.”
Our bodies are locked together, aligned in all the places that count—except one.
“But you’re Andy’s best friend,” he says.
“I am.”
“And we’re gonna have to see each other after this. All the time.”
“Are you planning to be embarrassed by your performance?”
His laugh is a deep, desperate scratch. “Hardly.”
“Then what?” I ask, breath tracing his lips, tantalizingly close to what we both want. “What are you so scared of, Owen?”
His pupils dilate in the darkness, gaze dropping down to my mouth. I take my bottom lip between my teeth. His fingers tighten on my waist.
Then, finally: “Fuck it.”
His lips crash into mine.
I moan as our mouths meet, arching my back to press us closer. His hands are needy, greedy—fingertips grasping urgently at the swell of my hips, sliding up my back, exploring and savoring and electrifying each place he touches.
Then he’s spinning us around, pressing me against the wall, and my body is a battlefield of sensation.
The warmth of his chest at my front, the cold of the plaster at my back, and the heat of his mouth—his mouth—as it claims me, devours me, trails wet kisses that feel like desperate reds and impulsive purples along the side of my neck.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he groans against my skin. “God, Amelia, you feel even better than you look.”
And maybe this is stupid. Maybe we’re both more emotionally weakened by today than we realize. It’s reckless and selfish and neither of us wants anything real to come from it—but it feels good.
His grip is passion, his touch desperation. His lips move over mine again and it’s pressure, perfect pressure everywhere, breaking down the noise in my head until it’s nothing but static and physical need.
And if I’m doing this—if I’m damning the consequences tonight—then I want more. No one can see us back here, a shadowed corner of a deep balcony. Almost no one even knows this room exists. And I’ve never backed down from a little risk before.
I reach down, gripping the hard length of him through his pants, and there’s no denying how affected he is. A breathy groan leaves his lips, like he can’t control the way his body reacts to me.
Good. Let him fall apart. I want to see a crack in that cocky, polished exterior. And I want to know I was the one who did it.
I stroke him again, then reach for the buckle of his belt.
“Wait,” he says, one hand cupping my wrist.
I slow down, shifting my fingers to the waistband of his pants, a single finger tucked under the edge. “Wait for what?”
His reply is strangled. “I can’t fuck you here.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” His hands come back to my waist, squeezing with urgency as he brings his lips to my jaw, kisses warmly down my neck, behind my ear. “When I finally fuck you, I’m gonna do it right. I’m gonna take my time, and there won’t be anyone around who can interrupt.”
Then his mouth is on mine again. Every motion of his lips is unforgiving, brutal, bruising until we’ve completely devolved to teeth and tongues and caressing hands.
“You sure?” I rasp one more time, grinding against him, feeling every hard inch that undeniably wants me, wants this, right now.
His hand winds farther into my hair, pressing his forehead against mine as he catches his breath. “I’m not sure of anything right now.”
And there’s my answer. Even if his body wants me—even for all the teasing and flirting and propositioning over the last month, the last year—there’s still a part of him that knows better. That knows I’m a minefield.
So I decide to play it off. I pull back with a wink and a teasing, “Chicken.”
Then I push off from his shoulders and stride towards the balcony door. The loss of his touch is a flood of cold water on my skin, but I won’t show how much he affects me.
“Wh—where are you going?” he calls, bewildered and breathless.
I look over my shoulder. “How’s my makeup? Are my lips fucked?”
“Uh… no?” His eyebrows twitch in a parade of emotions—confusion, disbelief, lust, then confusion again. “You—you look great?”
“Good,” I say. “Come on, hot shot, we better get back before Sophie and Andy notice we’re gone.”
Then, without waiting for him to reply, I walk away.