I pull back, feeling too wild. Needing to control myself, but not really wanting to, only hearing her ragged breath as our lips remain hovered.
She swallows, and even in the shadow, I can see the flush on her skin.
I want to kiss her again.
Goldie must be thinking the same thing because she lifts her chin and gives me a singular chaste peck before repeating it over and over, until she’s forcing her bottom lip between mine, coaxing me back to her.
“Fuck me,” I whisper, giving in.
I can’t stop myself. I’m back for more, tasting her tongue and feeling its warmth against my own. Her arms crowd between us but only to raise her fingers to my jaw, cradling my face, as we fuse together, sealed so tight that it’s unseemly.
We’re raw, unadulterated lust. Two kids in an alley about to do the kind of shit reserved for dark rooms. But now that the Pandora’s box of sex-filled energy is open, we’re slaves to the consequences.
She wraps her arms around my neck, and my thoughts go from kissing her lips to kissing every damn piece of her. To laying her open and fucking her until we’re sweaty and spent, breathless and sated.
I tear my mouth away, my head dizzy, mind afloat.
We’re near panting as I smile down at her, pushing against the wall to create a sanctity of space between us.
“You’re a killer ... a black widow, for sure. Go on, kiss me to death.”
She tries to laugh, but it’s airy and woven between short exhales. Her fingers lift to her swollen lips, wiping the shine away as she shyly turns her head toward the street. I bite my lip before dipping my head to kiss her jawline softly.
What is it about her? She’s fucking mouthwatering.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, lost in the softness of her skin.
“No,” she quietly laughs. “We have an audience.”
My lips begrudgingly leave her as my head whips up, my narrowed eyes following her line of sight to a group of people crossing the street. They’re laughing, all their heads taking turns to look back over their shoulders in our direction.
I smile and feel Goldie’s embarrassment as she hides her face in my chest before she whispers to me, so I cover the back of her head with one hand, shielding her with my arm.
Whatever she says vibrates through my shirt, and I wish I could say I hear her, but I don’t. Because my eyes are still locked in place.
Across the street, about twenty yards past the people, is a silhouette. One just outside the spotlight of a streetlamp. An unmoving statue.
Watching.
The smile I’m wearing slowly fades until it’s gone because my blood runs cold.
A car passes, its tires echoing off the tension I feel, but the statue moves only to tilt their head.
It’s unnerving when you can feel someone looking at you, like ice down the spine. I’ve said it before: Men are always on guard. But it’s not men. It’s me.
And I don’t know if it’s my simmering paranoia or if I’m truly feeling what I’m feeling. But rage, palpable and thick, winds itself closer, dredging along the cracked asphalt, aimed directly at us. My eyes narrow, piercing the space, my pulse jumping up a notch as adrenaline begins coursing through my veins.
Maybe it’s fight or flight?No, it’s always fight.
As if to prove myself right, my jaw tenses, and I take a firm step toward the outside of the alley, but Goldie holds me in place, kissing my chest from the outside of my shirt, her cool hands beginning to roam my stomach just underneath it. It makes me blink a few times rapidly, before I let out a harsh breath as my abs contract under her touch.
Moreover, it serves to break my momentum and makes me glance down at her.
“Hey, we should get out of here,” she purrs, oblivious to my reaction.
“Not until ...” I begin to say, looking back across the street, but it’s empty.
