Page 68 of Her Sloth

I sit up, grasp her face—my lips land on hers, fired by the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Right now, there is nothing awkward about it anymore.

There is just this heat.

This desire.

Her hands grasp me.

Pulls me close.

My shirt falls to the ground.

She massages my breast.

I gasp.

And suddenly my mind turns off.

I kiss her neck.

She moans—a sound that shivers through my body.

She rolls her hips against mine.

I grasp around her ass, trail to the front under her hoodie, to her breasts⁠—

Suddenly, she freezes.

I stop.

She lets go of me like electrocuted and hops off me, getting up with her hands stretched out in protection.

“What’s up?” I ask her as I grab my shirt, pull it back on, and get up too.

She shakes her head.

“I—“ she begins, stops. Shakes her head again, turns, and walks away.

“Stop!” I shout after her, but she doesn’t stop. The professional walk-awayer she labeled herself in action.

“Cass! You can’t walk away from this!” I shout. “You can’t walk away from what is real.”

But apparently, she can, because she walks without one glance back, leaving me standing between our cars in this empty warehouse.

I stare into the empty warehouse long after she is gone.

“Guys, it’s hitting the media,” says Jackson suddenly in my ear, and my soul almost leaves my body. I have completely forgotten the intercom was still on.

I dig my face into my hand, then I have to laugh because they have all listened to our little dispute without so much as a word. Cass will be as mad as she can be, and that thought brings me immense joy right now; it’s like getting back to her

I get out my phone to check what’s going on online.

Every major news outlet has it on.

“That’s fucking epic,” I say as I read the headlines and see the photo of our banners everywhere.

Activists attack Whitney-Morgan Bank

Banner on Whitney-Morgan Bank leads to website with insider information of Bank’s violations