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“Cute,” I say. And it is. Seeing Ian in his element is endearing to me, but I also know what it’s like to need to focus. “Should I let you get back to it?”
I don’t want him to. I want his attention. I crave it in a way that I haven’t with people I’ve liked in the past. What Ian gives isn’t just generous; it’s genuine. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t half-ass anything, and since that night at the bowling alley, I’ve been feeling the full weight of his attention. More than anyone else in my life, I feel like he sees me—like, really sees me. I’ve been trying to ignore it, to shrug it off, but I feel it even when he’s not near me. Like the way your ears burn when someone is talking about you, I carry Ian’s attention in my bones.
It’s unfamiliar and unnerving.
Everything about the way he makes me feel unsettles me. And there are only two ways that I know how to handle feelings like this. Most people say “fight or flight.” I like to call it “fuck or flight.” I’m either going to run, to push him away and keep him at arm’s length, or I’m going to pull him closer. Physically. To vent my feelings the way other people might go to the gym and beat a punching bag until they run out of anger.
“I got a lot done earlier tonight,” he says, not fully answering my question.
“Oh, so . . . you’re free then?” I say, mischief in my voice. I raise my eyebrows at him, slide my hands down his arms, and take his hands in mine to drag him with me as I walk toward the door. “So we could . . . go somewhere . . .”
There’s heavy implication in my voice. He seems to understand. The corners of his mouth tick up in a devilish grin, and unlike the first time we tried to hook up, this Ian looks hungry at the idea of it.
I lean against the door and clutch at the fabric of his shirt, moving him toward me until his body is flush against mine, all his sharp edges against my curves. He wastes no time in putting his mouth to mine, kissing me like a starved man having his first meal in days.
We kiss against the door like teenagers; like we’re sixteen and just discovered kissing. We kiss like we’re pressed for time; like any minute we’ll be forced apart and this is our only chance. We kiss like this is what sustains us. Not oxygen, not water, just his lips and mine.
When his hand slides up my shirt, his fingers skimming my rib cage, I arch my back, pressing myself against him. He leans his body weight into me, the hard door against my back giving me nowhere to go.
As much as I love this—and I do—I already know I want more, and standing against this door isn’t the way I want to do this. I’ve hooked up with people in the theater before. I know all the best places for it.
“Let’s go to the dressing rooms,” I say, drawing lazy loops on his chest with the tip of my finger. It’s arguably one of the hottest places to hook up in the building. I would know.
Groping blindly behind me, I reach for the handle, but Ian’s hand covers mine, and I still.
“This door locks,” he says, his lips hovering over mine.
The click of the lock sends a chill down my spine.
Holy shit.
When I look up at him, all I see in his eyes is a desire so hot it’s molten. He skates his fingers along my jaw and down my neck, resting his hand over my collarbone. He brushes his lipsagainst mine—the softest, most gentle kiss I’ve ever felt. Once. Twice. The third kiss is less docile, more insistent. It’s got all the heat that was in his eyes, and a hunger that’s been waiting just a little too long to be satisfied.
I gather a fistful of his shirt again and lean toward him, forcing him to walk backward. We stop kissing just long enough for me to guide him back toward the counter. Before the backs of his legs hit the counter, I turn us, the edge of the counter digging into the backs of my thighs instead. I release him for long enough to hop onto the counter and pray it’ll hold me, although, truthfully, I don’t care if we break the goddamn thing.
“You know, I always thought this would be a great place to hook up,” Ian murmurs, sliding his hands over my thighs, up my hips and waist, to my rib cage. He dips his head, placing a soft kiss on my collarbone, then the spot between my collarbone and my neck, then the sensitive spot right at the base of my neck. I catch the fruity smell of his shampoo as I thread my fingers through his hair, shivering at the drag of his lips along the side of my neck.
This is exactly what I needed: to get lost completely in the sensation of his mouth on my skin, his fingers leaving dents on my ribs, the press of my chest against his as I arch into him while he drags his teeth against a sensitive spot on my neck, sucking just enough for me to feel it, but not enough to leave any evidence.
“More,” I say—less of a word and more of a groan. I couldn’t give a shit about hickeys.
He sucks harder, teeth finding purchase. It hovers the line between pain and pleasure. A line I don’t mind flirting with.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” he says as he pulls back, his puffy lips forming a sly smile.
“Good,” I say. “Let them see.”
He kisses me then, but it’s more like a claiming. It’s a declaration that everything his mouth touches, everything his hands touch, belongs to him. I’m a goddamn feminist, but right now, Ian can have whatever he wants.
As we kiss, his hands move under my top to my breasts, pulling the cups of my bra down to find my nipples. There’s an urgency to the way he does this, like a hound that’s been released, eager for its moment.
“Oh my god,” I say against his mouth, but the words are more like moans, and the effect of his touch is immediate. My pussy throbs, begging for more. I can’t believe it’s taken so little to get me so wet.
He breaks our kiss only to find my neck again, sucking and kissing and driving me wild. He teases my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, caressing them with his fingertips until I can’t take it anymore.
I reach for the button on his jeans, popping it open and starting for the zipper, but he stops me, covering my hands with his own.
He doesn’t say anything, but he moves my hands back, setting them on the counter, making it clear that he’s in charge. He boxes me in, brushing his lips over my jaw. Our bodies are connected from chest to hips, pressed against each other, and I’m more turned on than I’ve been in a long time.
