She doesn’t pull away.
“You always mouthy to your dealers?” I ask.
She smirks. “You always this handsy with your customers?”
“Never.”
We’re close now. Too close. That mouth, that look in her eyes—she’s a goddamn dare wrapped in skin.
Her lips part, and this time, she doesn’t pull away.
She leans in and kisses me like she wants a fight. Like she wants to taste what it’s like when I snap. I kiss her back, hard, one hand gripping her hip, the other sliding up to her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like I don’t know whether to hold her still or fuck her senseless.
She climbs into my lap without hesitation, grinding down like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, and shedoes.That little roll of her hips, the press of her heat right against my cock—it’s not accidental. She’s playing with fire, like she knows I’m the one who’ll burn her.
My fingers dig into her hip as I keep her moving. Slow. Rough. Controlled. She moans into my mouth, soft and sharp, and fuck, the sound nearly undoes me. She tastes like smoke,sugar and something I’ll never fucking deserve, but will crave just the same.
My jacket’s still wrapped around her shoulders, hanging off like it belongs to her now. She looks good like that. Too good. Like trouble I’d ruin everything to touch again.
We bite at each other’s mouths, groaning, and grinding. The pressure builds so fast it’s dizzying. Her tongue flicks against mine, catching on the cold edge of my tongue ring, and she moans, deep and wrecked, like shelikesit. Every shift of her body over mine has my jaw clenched and my self-control on a razor’s fucking edge. She tugs my bottom lip between her teeth, dragging it slow, and I almost lose it right there.
Then—just like that—she pulls back.
Smirking. Flushed. Breathless. And proud of herself.
She climbs off me slow, dragging her fingers down my chest like she wants me to remember exactly where she was. I do. I’llneverforget it.
She grabs her boots from the sand, slips them on one by one, like I’m not sitting here hard and fucked up over her. Like she’s in control now.
She stands. Shrugs off my jacket and tosses it to me.
“Alright, lover boy,” she says, stretching like a goddamn siren, every curve baited with heat. “I’ve got a dance floor to corrupt and glitter to sweat off.”
My jaw ticks. “Blair?—”
But she’s already walking, boots crunching sand, hips swaying like she’s punishing me for wanting more.
I let her go.
But fuck, that mouth. That laugh. That fucking look in her eyes when she grinded on my lap.
She thinks she’s in control, but she has no idea.
I stay rooted there, jacket in hand, heart fucking pounding, and that’s when I hear him.
Footsteps. Smooth and deliberate. So smug I can feel the smirk radiating off him before he even speaks.
“Sweet of you,” Noir drawls behind me, voice dipped in smoke and mockery. “Giving her your jacket. What’s next? Holding her hair while she pukes up the drugs you gave her?”
I don’t turn around.
He comes up beside me anyway. Lights a cigarette like it’s a performance. Always was good at those.
“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” he says, exhaling toward the waves. “Not after everything.”
Silence falls—thick and rotted.
Then he says it.
