Page 115 of Bad Words

A mess of impulses fired in me. To wrap my arms around him, to fist a hand in the back of his shirt, to press myself up against his body so he’d know what I wanted.

But instead my hands rose and gently cupped his face, holding him, just feeling him here. He made a small, low sound. I felt like something had broken open in my chest, and what it spilled was molten, searing through me vessel by vessel.

Kissing was not supposed to feel this way, I wasn’t seventeen, but when I breathed in, his scent seemed to fill me, that rich, sweet smell, almond and amber, intensifying this sensation like hunger. I slipped one of my hands around to the back of his neck, feeling the rigid muscles there against my palm, and tugged him down into me.

He responded. Pressed me up against the wall, slow and hard, one hand tightening on my hip. His tongue drew a line over my bottom lip with an unhurried confidence that made my face burn. I curled a hand around his bicep, scraping him with my nails, and he made another low sound into my mouth that made me push away from the wall, toward him, toward his palm, which was slipping down my thigh.

Parker let go my hair and wrapped his arm around me, his forearm locking into the small of my back. He pulled me backward toward the love seat, our steps clumsy. His hand pushed under the hem of my dress as we went, mine under his shirt and tracing the flex of muscle in his side and back, the curve of his shoulder blade. He pulled away to yank his shirt over his head.

I reached up, closed my hand over the place his neck met his shoulder, and he sank onto the love seat, looking up at me flushed. The sight of him here, in my apartment, shirtless and hair rumpled, sent a warm shock down through me.

I stepped between his legs, then settled my knees on either side of his hips.

Parker’s hands found my thighs and squeezed. He pushed up my dress as I settled onto his lap, cupped his face in my hands, and lowered my mouth to his again. His teeth closed on my lip, gently first, then harder. One of his thumbs slid under the elastic of my underwear at the hip, the other up my abdomen, and when his palm brushed over the thin lace of my bra I whispered, “Take it off.”

“Impatient,” Parker said, and when he kissed me again I could feel him smiling, and all I could do was melt deeper into him, pushing him against the back of the sofa. He moved his hips. I could feel how hard he was. One hand sprang the clasp of my bra, and he broke the kiss to lick the pad of his thumb before reaching under my dress again, under the loosely hanging fabric of my bra, circling my nipple with his thumb tip.

I leaned back, my eyes easing open, and watched him watch me. His other hand moved, still stretching the band of my underwear, to the front of my body. His fingers slipped down, slid wet against me, and the touch felt so good, I sank down against his hand, my breaths growing ragged. A small, controlled sound came from his throat. I saw him swallow, and his fingertips ran back and forth until I felt drunk on the pleasure of it, until finally he pushed his hand forward and sank his finger deep into me.

I groaned. Closed my eyes and moved on his hand. He wrapped one arm around me again, then tilted me until my back was flat on the sofa seat, one of my feet hooked over his hip. His finger stayed deep inside me, moving slowly, curling, touching a place that made me see white.

“I was imagining this,” he murmured in my ear, “all night.”

With his other hand he pushed up my dress. I pulled it over my head, flung it away. He leaned back to look down at me, then slid a second finger inside, moving faster.

“Parker,” I said unsteadily. I reached up and touched his jaw, and like I’d tugged some invisible cord in him, he bent down and kissed me hard, his lips warm and wet now. I traced his lip with my tongue and reached down, searching for the button of his jeans. His hand brushed mine. I heard the buzz of his zipper, the rustle of cloth.

I cast a look at the hook on the wall, his winter jacket. “Did you bring a condom?”

“Fuck.” His hand stilled between my legs. “No. I had no idea there was any chance of this happening.”

“We can still … I have the implant. I’m up to date, if you—”

“Me too.”

“Good.” I trailed my hand over his hip, the skin at the top of his thigh, his hardness. He stilled, then pressed his hips forward, putting himself in my hand. I gripped tighter. He groaned into my mouth, bit at me gently, his fingers withdrawing from me, slipping against my thighs.

“You’re so wet,” he said onto me, sounding hoarse. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“I want you,” I whispered.

“Say it again.”

“I want you. Now—please.”

He pulled my underwear down and lowered his hips between my thighs. I felt him brush my entrance. I was so sensitive, the air cold, his skin so warm. But with my last shred of clarity I touched the back of his head, and he looked up at me, his eyes full of desire, and held my gaze as he slid into me, inch by slow, full inch, pressure building inside me.

“Please,” I said, opening my legs wider. He moved faster, deeper. I took his hand from my hair and moved it down toward my center. His thumb settled there and brushed, teasing, dipping, as I lifted myself up into him, the heat seeming to echo and multiply. Our noses brushed, his breaths rough against my cheek, and I said his name, and his mouth pressed hard to mine, and I held tight to his shoulder as his thumb hit that perfect spot again, and as he thrust into me I came undone under him, insensible, unable even to kiss him, so that his mouth moved over my chin and into the crook of my neck, his teeth teasing the skin there.

I cried out, gasped. Satisfaction jerked through me, tight and fast, then loosening out into steady, rhythmic waves. He kept pushing into me, riding me out, and I rolled my hips and felt his body go rigid, his mouth slackening against my neck. I lifted my legs around him, holding him deep in me.

The breath rushed out of him, and he crumpled, catching himself just above my body, on his forearms.

My heart pounded. Every inch of my body felt alive with minuscule bursting sensations, as though my blood were carbonated.

He pulled out slowly, gently, one hand still tracing my hip. “Selina?” he murmured onto my earlobe.

My eyes had fixed on one corner of my ceiling, a weathered spot of molding. I tried to steady myself, to understand why, suddenly, I wanted to pull a blanket over my body, to curl up in darkness.