Page 140 of Forsaking Midnight
She moves until she’s right in front of me, and her fingertips brush my jaw.
“I know who you are,” she says. “I see you, Lance Calloway. The real you. Not the mask you wear for everyone else.”
“You say that, but you don’t know everything I’ve done.”
“I know enough. And I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“Well, I don’t.” Her hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and every rational thought I’ve ever had evaporates. “You can’t tell me I’m your seven seconds and then expect me to just turn away.”
My heart stutters. I want to bridge the gap so badly I can’t think straight.
“We don’t have a choice.” I press my forehead against hers. “I’m not this guy. You’re not this girl.”
“Don’t tell me who I am, when all I want to be is yours.”
I don’t know when I decide to move.
One second her hands are around my neck, and the next I’m kissing her like I’ve been holding my breath for months and she’s the only air left in the world.
She whimpers against my mouth, and I swallow the sound because I’m greedy for it—her taste, her warmth, her everything—and then she’s kissing me back harder, fingers twisting in my hair, body pressing flush against mine. She tastes like wine and something sweeter underneath, and I want to drown in her.
It’s not gentle. It’s weeks of wanting and nights of almost and a lifetime of believing I didn’t deserve anything good, all crashing together.
She climbs into my lap, straddling me in the armchair. Her hips grind down and I bite back a groan that slips through my teeth anyway.
Her tongue wraps around mine, and when she moans, I feel it everywhere. My hips jerk up into her, chasing that hot, perfect pressure between her thighs, and she gasps.
My hands clamp onto her waist. My fingers slide beneath the hem of her hoodie—myhoodie—skimming the bare skin of her hips, and she arches into me, mouth opening wider, giving me every part of her without hesitation.
I drag my palms up her sides, committing her to memory, and when my thumbs brush the curve of her ribs, she leans into the touch like she’s chasing it.
“You look so good in my clothes,” I say against her mouth. “But I want to see what’s underneath.”
She lifts the hem and pulls it over her head.
The breath leaves my lungs.
Her freckles are scattered across her collarbone, and the top of her cleavage, disappearing into a black lace bralette. Constellations I want to trace with my tongue and memorize for every dark night I’ll ever spend underground.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispers.
“Like what? Like you’re beautiful?” I press a kiss to her shoulder. “You are.”
My thumbs sweep beneath the curve of her breasts and she shudders.
“You’re killing me,” I say.
“Then do something about it.”
I grab her and kiss her like I’ve bled for it. She melts into me, mouth open, hungry, my hands tight on her waist, and then she grinds—presses down right against where I’m aching for her, and I groan into her mouth.
She’s finally where I need her. My hips jerk up, and the friction is making me lose my mind. She’s so wet I can feel it through her leggings, slick and hot against the front of my sweats, and I palm her through the fabric. Her body jolts, her head dropping to my shoulder.
I want to rip everything off. Pull her down onto me. Bury myself inside her until we both forget everything except this.
So I do. I grab the waistband of her leggings and yank them down her thighs, and she helps, kicking them away, and then I shove my sweats down just enough because I can’t wait long enough to take them all the way off.
