Or maybe for the first time.
But she doesn't answer for a long time. "I'm sorry," she mumbles. "It's just you keep surprising me." I suddenly badly want to feel her lips on me. Her fingers. Her body pressed to mine.
The allure of that siren call is fierce and compelling.
Then her gaze collides with mine and she steps into my space.
I'm drunk. But not so drunk that I can't slip my hands around her waist and draw her closer. I resent the clothing between us, separating her skin from mine. I resent the streetlamp overhead, the city street that is not a private space.
"I'm a little drunk," I whisper against her mouth.
"I can taste that." Her words brush across my lips, followed by a fleeting sensation of her lips against mine. She is soft and sweet and tastes like mint and a thousand bright lights.
Her words send a cascade of imagery through my brain, a starburst of her body spread beneath me, her dark skin cast in shadows and light. My mouth on her. Her taste on my tongue.
I want this. Holy god, but I want.
"I don't want to be alone," she whispers.
I slide my hand over her cheek, cradling her face. For a moment I just stand there, savoring the feel of her skin beneath mine, the sensation of touching someone I care about. For a moment, it doesn't matter that I'm broken, that I can't love her fully and right like she deserves.
For a moment, she is enough.
I nip her bottom lip. Her breath huffs into my mouth and I want to swallow the sensation and savor it. I press my lips to hers. She opens for my hesitant touch, her tongue brushing against mine, twining, dancing, tasting.
An erotic twist of moist, delicate strokes.
She makes a warm sound in her throat. "I live very close to here."
I am suddenly a very thankful man. "You don't mind that I've been drinking? I might not be able to get it up." The truth, hidden in an alcohol-laden confession.
"You're not a violent drunk, are you?"
I lower my forehead to hers. "Not with women."
She slides closer, her body aligned with mine. Until I can feel the inhalation of her breath.
"And we already know you're very good with your mouth," she whispers in my ear. Her breath is hot. My body shudders with arousal, dark and needy and far too long denied. I can almost imagine a shiver of sensation in the vicinity of my dick.
I smile and nip at her ear. "That was just a warm up."
This time, it is Abby who shivers, her body trembling. I can feel the shift in her. The lithe, erotic tension twisting through her sinews, making them soft and supple.
She buries her face in my neck. "Oh god, just the thought of that is making me crazy."
"Of what?" I whisper. "Can you say it?" I press my lips to her neck where the pulse is scattered and quick. "Tell me what you want?"
We are standing in the street, bathed in overhead light. She is pressed to me, her body as close as it can be while fully clothed.
And I have never been more aroused. More fully aware of someone else's need, throbbing through her and into me.
It is powerful what I can do with my mouth, my words.
It is not enough.
It is everything.
Chapter 18
Abby
It takes an extreme amount of confidence to whisper dark and dirty things to a lover. Even more to do it in a public space.
It requires trust to whisper those forbidden things. Those intimate, private longings we can't even admit to ourselves.
I close my eyes, holding on to the sensation of Josh's mouth on mine. The memory of his body pressed to me in the dark.
I tell my friends to be brave. To go after the brief moment of happiness they might be able to capture in the dark interludes between loving and hurting.
I tell Graham to be brave. To walk away from the violence of a lover who hurts him.
I cannot say those same words to myself. I am not brave. I cannot whisper the things I want to do with Josh. I cannot put voice to those words.
I am a coward hiding behind a carefully manufactured fa?ade.
"Come home with me?" I whisper instead, taking the easy path to promises of pleasure.
He smiles against my mouth. "Is that the best you can do?"
"I'm not very creative."
He makes a warm sound, deep in his throat. "We're going to have to work on that."
"I think I like that plan."
I take his hand, reluctantly stepping away from him to lead him the few blocks to my apartment.
It's small but it's just me living here. I don't have a lot of furniture. I have a thing for secondhand shops, especially in this part of North Carolina where old and new money intermingle freely.
It's not Spartan, but it's functional and it’s mine; the first space I've had that's totally mine. No roommate. No expectations.
Which is why there is a pile of unfolded laundry on my couch.
Josh smiles when he sees it, then draws me closer to him until there is nothing but silence and heat between us. "I knew you couldn't be perfect."
"I'm far from perfect."
"Not from where I'm standing."