Page 56 of What I Should've Said

“Excuse me?”

Her eyes open again and lock with mine. “Why do you even care that I was talking to Tad Hanson? Why do you care what I do or who I do it with?”

“I don’t.” Liar.

Norah stares at me. I stare right back at her.

“I don’t,” I repeat but find myself stepping closer to her. “I don’t care,” I say, leaning down to meet her gaze at eye level. “Not one fucking bit.”

But the instant those words leave my throat, my mouth follows their path, and before I know it, before I can even make sense of it, we’re kissing.

I don’t know who started it, but I know that I’m not stopping it. And I know that her hands grip the material of my shirt as she pulls my body closer to hers.

A moan escapes her throat, and I feel it all the way to my cock.

Son of a bitch. This, right here, is the last thing I should be doing.

But she tastes so good.

I wrap my arms around her body, sliding my hands down the small of her back and over her ass, until my fingers grip the flesh of her thigh and lift it up to my hip. The silk material of her dress brushes against my skin, and a greedy little groan jumps from her mouth and into mine.

I should stop this.

She presses her hips against me, rubbing herself against my already hard cock through the material of our clothes.

But she feels too good.

Her breasts are pressed tight against me, and I feel them every time she takes a breath against my chest. Hell, I can feel the hardness of her nipples beneath her dress.

I. Need. To. Stop. This.

But you don’t want to stop it. You want to slide your hand farther up her thigh until your fingers are underneath her panties.

She kisses me deeper, and her hands find their way into my hair. Her hips vibrate with need, pulsing her body against my still-clothed but hard-as-steel cock in rhythmic, needy waves. All the while, her tongue plays an erotic game of tug-of-war with mine.

Stop. This. Now.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say, still kissing her, and I’m not sure if it’s more for her or for me.

“I know,” she whispers back, her persistent lips still working against mine. “We should stop.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

We don’t stop. If anything, it feels a lot like we’re only getting closer to me ripping her fucking panties off and sliding my cock inside her.

Oh, what you’d give right now to be able to fill her with your come. To be able to slide yourself inside her, as far as you can go, and stay there until you feel her climax wet your dick.

“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry!” A completely unfamiliar voice fills my ears, startling both me and Norah to finally fucking stop. In an instant we go from melded-together-like-a-second-skin to junior-high-dance-appropriate distance from each other.

I look down the dark hall, back toward the bar, to find Sheila, Marty Higgins’s wife, standing there with big eyes. “I didn’t see anything, I swear!” Promptly, she covers both eyes with her hands, adding, “I’m… Yeah… Sorry,” before hurriedly spinning on her heels and heading back to where the crowd imbibes booze.

So much for getting some control.

Norah’s cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen from kissing. She nervously clears her throat and runs her hands down the front of her dress. “I…I’m going to go to the bathroom. I’ll…uh…I’ll see you…later,” she whispers before scooting herself the rest of the way down the hall and through the door labeled Ladies.

Time to get the fuck out of here.

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