Fucking. Hell.
With her hands pressed against my chest to balance herself, she rises onto her tiptoes and nibbles the sensitive skin right below my ear. “You taste good too.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you, Hadley. This isn’t you. This is the drugs.”
“Will you at least make me feel better?”
“Hads––”
“Just a kiss,” she begs. “It’s all I want. A simple.” Her lips press against my throat again. “Little.” She moves up to my jaw beneath my ear, sucking softly. The feeling shoots straight to my cock. She pulls away and whispers, “Kiss.”
The air is electric, pulsing between us as I look down at her, all doe-eyed and pouty lips. But the weird part? I’m not craving the high from whatever was slipped into her drink. I’m only craving her.
Hadley.
Her taste.
Her scent.
The feel of her round hips in the palms of my hands. Just to see if she feels the same as I remember.
I’m so screwed.
“Hads,” I murmur, but she shakes her head and tangles her fingers along the short hair at the back of my scalp, pulling me closer.
And because I’m weak and broken––and apparently trading one addiction for another––I let her.
The kiss is soft at first. A little unsure. Like now that she has me, she doesn’t know what to do with me. And neither do I. I’m frozen in shock and self-control. If I give in, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. But I also can’t pull away. Not when her tongue glides along the seam of my lips, and she gets bolder, tugging at the hair on the back of my neck with a bit more force. I open my mouth and give in, kissing her back.
She tastes like cherries. Not the fake, maraschino bullshit, but the real kind. Tart. Fruity. The perfect distraction on a hot day when your sweat is dripping down your back and your muscles ache from running outside.
And fuck me. I’m aching.
For her.
She’s like a damn buffet, and I’m expected to have enough self-control to only sneak a taste? It’s impossible. I want her. I want her so damn much.
She’s on something, I remind myself.
But she wasn’t on something when she kissed me for the first time.
And she wanted me then.
Why wouldn’t she want me now?
My guilt rears its ugly head as her hand slips down my torso, finding my jeans and rubbing my throbbing erection through the thick material. My hips thrust on their own, and it takes every last ounce of self-discipline I can find to grab her wrist and pull her away from me.
“Stop, Hads.”
“I want you, Fender. I want all of you––”
“You don’t know what you’re saying––”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” she argues. “So, I’m on something. So, I like the way I feel when you’re touching me. But what’s going on in here?” She taps her short, trimmed fingernail against her temple. “It’s still me. It’s still my wants. My needs. And I need you to touch me. I’m begging you, Fen––”
The taste of her kiss is the most addictive thing I’ve ever been exposed to as I silence her with my mouth. Because I can’t take it anymore. Her begging. The slight tremble in her voice. The heat in her gaze. If the woman wants to torture me, she’s doing a bang-up job. When her teeth dig into my lower lip, I shove myself away from her. Again. As if she’s my own brand of narcotics. Because it’s exactly what she is.
Sweat clings to my forehead, my self-control only taking me so far as her back hits the wall with a soft thump. I might not be able to control myself, but I can control her. If I can find a way to give her what she wants without compromising myself in the process.