Page 13 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

"It's a promise."

The hand at her throat slides up. The other leaves the counter. I grip her jaw. My thumbs drag over her cheekbones, mapping the soft, flushed skin. She shivers. The stubborn set of her mouth parts.

I crush my mouth down on hers.

There’s no hesitation. No gentle coaxing. I take her mouth like I’m taking enemy territory. My tongue sweeps inside, tasting stale coffee and raw need. She makes a muffled sound, a desperate little moan that vibrates against my lips, and kisses me back with the same violent energy. Her hands come up, tangling in my hair, gripping my scalp. Her nails dig in. Good. Let her fight. Let her pull. She can take all her anger, all her shame about the enforcer, and pour it into me. I’m built to take it. I’m built to carry her.

I back her against the edge of the oak counter. The wood digs into her lower back. I press my body flush against hers. My cock is a thick, aching length of iron, straining against the zipper of my jeans. I trap one of her legs between mine. I grind my hips forward.

The harsh friction of denim rubbing against the seam of her jeans rips a loud gasp from her throat.

I drag my mouth from hers and bite the soft skin at the corner of her jaw. Hard enough to mark. Hard enough that the Syndicate scout watching the shop from the bus stop across the street will see the bruise tomorrow morning and know somebody else has been here. Somebody who doesn't share. Her fingers fist in the back of my hair.

I drag my open mouth down the line of her throat. The salt of her skin floods my tongue. I bite again at the hollow above her collarbone. Suck the skin red. Let the bruise bloom.

She moans my name out loud. The actual name. The real one. I shudder against her so hard the counter rocks on its base.

"Fuck," I groan against her throat.

I drag my lips up from the bruise, tracing the line of her throat. My teeth scrape over her pulse point. It jumps frantically against my tongue. She smells like warm vanilla, old vinyl sleeves, and rising arousal. The scent is an intoxicating drug. It wipes out everything else in the universe. Mac handed me the keys to a battered Honda Civic eight months ago and told me not to get attached to the car. Too fucking late. Forget the car—I’m attached to the goddamn record shop. I’m irrevocably anchored to the woman breathing heavy against my chest.

My hands move down her sides, gripping her waist. I lift her slightly, just enough to adjust her angle against the counter, keeping her feet on the floor but tilting her hips upward. I settle into the notch of her thighs.

I roll my hips. Slow. Deliberate. The thick seam of my jeans grinds over her center.

She cries out. Her head falls back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. Her hands drop from my hair to grip my shoulders, her fingers squeezing the rigid muscle.

"Tyler," she whimpers.

"I told you not to say it."

I bite the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder. My hands slide under the hem of her vintage band t-shirt. Her skin is scorching hot. My rough palms drag up her ribs, mapping the delicate cage of bone. She isn't wearing a bra. The realization makes the blood roar louder in my ears. I cup her bare breasts. They’re soft, spilling perfectly into my hands. My thumbs find her nipples. They’re already hard, tight peaks of flesh begging for friction. I roll them between my thumbs and forefingers, applying ruthless, pinching pressure.

She thrashes against the counter. Her hips jerk upward, desperately chasing the friction of my thigh.

"Please," she gasps.

"Say it. Out loud."

"More. I need..." She trails off into a fractured moan as I scrape my thumbnail over the tight nub of her nipple.

"Finish the sentence, Wendy."

"You. Just you."

I drag her shirt up further, bunching the fabric around her collarbones. I bury my face in her chest. I open my mouth over her right breast, taking the hard peak between my teeth. I suck hard. The wet, obscene sound of my mouth pulling on her flesh fills the shop, louder than the Fleetwood Mac record spinning behind us. She arches violently against the wood. Her nails carve half-moons into my shoulders through my shirt. I pull on her soft flesh, drawing it deep into my mouth, laving the tight nipple with my tongue before biting down gently.

I move my mouth to her left breast. I bite the soft underside. Suck another red bloom into her skin, a twin to the bruise at her collarbone. By the time I lift my head, the curve of her chest is mapped with marks. She’s shaking. Her fingers are tangled tight in the back of my shirt. The thin cotton of her band shirt is shoved up under her arms. Her bare chest is flushed red and rising in ragged jerks against my mouth.

I drag my open mouth down the soft slope of her stomach. The taste of her skin changes—warmer here, faintly salty, soft. I bite the soft skin above the waistband of her vintage jeans. She makes a fractured sound.

The wet patch on the front of her jeans where my thigh has been grinding is dark with her slick. I can smell her through the denim. Sweet, dark, intensely female. The scent hits the back of my throat and rips a groan out of me before I can stop it.

She’s going to ruin me. The Ignition is going to ruin me.

Her hips buck uncontrollably, chasing my mouth. The denim creates agonizing, relentless friction. I can smell her slickness now. The musky scent of her arousal permeates the air, cutting through the smell of the old floorboards. She’s soaking wet for me. Her body is primed, melting under the demand of my hands.

Cool air hits the wet marks I left on her breasts, and she shivers. I drop my hands to the button of her vintage jeans.