Page 681 of Rock Me All Night
"Peeta is perfect."
I secure my seat belt and turn the car on. The electric engine barely whispers. It's quiet. And it's mine.
Damn, it's like the car handles better being mine. I pull onto the street and follow Pete's directions. Traffic is light. The streets are wide. It feels like I zoom through every green light.
Twenty minutes later, we're turning on a quiet, curvy street. It takes us to the top of a hill. The twinkling lights of the suburbs surround us. And past those, there's the dark blue of the ocean.
It's beautiful. And empty.
The perfect make-out spot.
I turn off the engine and undo my seatbelt.
Pete turns to me. "Should we christen Peeta or is he shy?"
A laugh escapes my lips. "No. He's into it. He digs threesomes."
Pete chuckles. He pats his lap.
I don't need to be asked twice. I climb over the center console. My knees plant outside his thighs. It already feels so good, the weight of my body sinking into his.
He looks up at me. His fingers trail over my jaw and my cheek. He takes off my glasses, folds them, and places them in the center console. "Let me see it again."
My lips curl into a smile. Okay, time to tease him back. "You want me topless, ask."
"You're wearing a dress."
"Technicalities." I pull the zipper to my waist and pull the dress over my head. It's difficult positioning myself so Pete can see the tattoo on my shoulder blade. It's my half of our couples tattoo—an arrow with the wordsreal or not realin the center.
He traces its lines again and again. "How did I get so lucky, you falling in love with me?"
I turn so we're face to face. "I'm the lucky one." I lean in to kiss him.
Affection flows from his lips to mine and back again. It's still overwhelming, how lucky I am, how amazing this relationship is, how much he loves me.
I don't have a hint of patience today. I've been busy with school. He's been busy with work on the new album. We're both adamant about putting nose to the grindstone Monday through Friday then spending our weekends together.
It's Thursday. I haven't touched him properly since Sunday. Even after months together, four days without touching feels like an eternity.
I unhook my bra and let it fall aside. The starlight flows in through the windows. We're as good as alone here. It's safe to do this, to do whatever I want to him.
His hands go to my hips. He pulls my panties to my knees.
I'm not waiting. I unzip his hoodie and slide it off his shoulders. Then the t-shirt. His jeans prove more difficult. I can't manage to get the button.
He takes my hands and brings them to his shoulders. Then his lips are on mine. His tongue is in my mouth. His kiss is greedy. Mine is too. I run my fingertips over every inch of his skin I can—his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, the back of his neck.
My hands find his hair. I hold his mouth against mine, kissing him hard and deep. The intimacy of it takes my breath away. I have to pull back to stare into his eyes.
That look in his eyes—that's love. It pours into my soul. It fills the car.
This space is ours.
The world is ours.
He's mine and I'm his.
Our bodies need to be joined. Now.
