Page 53 of Stranger Danger

But no one’s noticed a goddamn thing.

Ira shifts his weight, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping. He’s so tight around me, deliberately clenching and releasing like he’s practicing muscle control.

“—completely misses the point,” Sam is saying, gesturing with a half-empty beer. “The whole appeal is the texture, you know? You can’t replicate that—”

My fingers dig into Ira’s hip where I’ve anchored them, but it’s not helping. He lifts his head to kiss my chin, and I remember to breathe.

“You’re right.” My voice comes out almost normal. “About the texture thing.”

Sam beams up at me from the floor. “See? Beck gets it.”

Someone unpauses, and the movie finally starts. Some synth-heavy score and a tracking shot through a dark house.

Ira’s not moving anymore. Part of me is grateful, while the other part isn’t. All I can do is grip his hips hard enough to bruise and focus on the screen.

Now I get why he wanted the movie to be especially scary.

If everyone else is jumping, they won’t notice us.

The first scare happens—a mirror gag, classic—and half the room shrieks. I use the cover to slam his entire body up, then down. Once isn’t nearly enough, but it’s all the time I have.

“Fuck,” I whisper into his hair.

His silent laughter vibrates against my collarbone. My nails catch on the inside seam of his shorts, and I want to tear them off completely.

He leans closer, mouth brushing my cheek. “You’re doing so good, Beckett. Keep doing that, over and over, and you’ll make me come so hard I might scream.”

Shit.

I’m never surviving tonight.

Praise hits different when it comes from him.

My jaw locks with effort, and I swallow everything I want to say when Sam’s shoulder brushes my leg from the floor. Leon is describing a film festival in Austin that showed the film originally, throwing gummy worms around as he waves his hands. Allison swats at him without looking away from the screen.

I can barely concentrate.

Another scare—a figure in the doorway, silhouetted—and I use the laughing “boos” from the crowd to drive up into Ira again, harder this time. His head snaps back against my shoulder, and for a second I think he’s actually going to make noise, but he just exhales slow and controlled.

“You’re evil,” I mouth against his temple, and he turns so I can see his grin.

“You’re welcome,” he whispers back.

How this is working, I have no clue. Apparently, our friends would rather debate the merits of early 2000s paranormal-slashers than notice that we’re actively fucking less than two feet away.

The next act starts with a séance scene, candles everywhere, and the flickering light makes everything worse. Ira uses the strobing shadows to roll his hips in tiny, figure-eight circles. I have to pretend I’m invested in the fake medium’s monologue while he’s trying to kill me.

“—completely inverts the trope,” Leon is saying, his hand smacking my shoulder when he gestures at me. “You expect the innocent one to survive, but no—”

Ira clenches at the exact moment the medium screams. I flinch with everyone else, using the motion to thrust up harder than I should. He buries his face in the cover, like he’s afraid, but I feel his breathing catch.

“Beck?” Leon’s looking at me. “You good, man? You’re red—”

“Fine.” The word scrapes out. “Just—jump scare got me.”

“We saw this together last year, though.”

“Yep,” I manage. “Memory of a goldfish tonight.”