Beautiful Liar | Adam Sackler

My Weirdo

Sweat accumulates on the nape of your neck, stragglers from your tousled bun lapping at your sun-blistered skin. Glistening in luminescent droplets under your eyes, accompanied by a smudge of streaked mascara.

"Fuck." You drone sluggishly, rolling your eyes, bundling up your hair with a clammy fist, fanning out the moisture pooling at your neck.

The air-conditioning unit supplying the abundance of apartments acclimated to the complex had undergone some... turbulence. It exploded. Now, you were baking in the May-platooned sun that gleamed through Sackler's opened window, the breeze anything but alleviating— it was just as balmy as the humidity engulfing New York.

"It's hot as dog shit in here," Adam growls, grimace sour, as he surges through the door in earnest, shirtless-determination. Perspiration soaring down his brawny torso, glimmering off of the curvature of his frame, the divots of his pecs. A brown, crumbled bag perched to his hip.

"Get naked," you demand, slurring, gesturing at him with ferocity from your position upon the couch— garbing only your undergarments, sprawled, legs spread, one dangling over the plush cushions of his mustard-canary couch.

Adam slams the crinkled bag upon the coffee table, glass rattling and slithering from the tawny bag. "Don't gotta order me twice," he rasps. A bottle of virgin Peach Daiquiri clanks onto the table, and you manage a dreary smirk, slinking up your legs to allow Sackler space to sit atop his couch.

He plants himself there with a hoarse grunt, and your legs instantly collapse into his lap, your supple, sweaty skin smearing over his thighs, hulking and meaty. His digits fumble with the buttons of his khaki shorts, unfastening them hastily, slick fingers perspiring the zipper.

You extend your hand, grappling at the bottle of Daiquiri. Virgin. The bottle nearly seared your palm, broiling. You hiss, recoiling, spearing Sackler with a glare as he snickers at your astonishment.

"Nothing like a scolding glass of non-alcoholic daiquiri," you quip bitterly, scooping it up regardless, popping the cap and taking a swig.

Sackler maneuvers to apply a kiss to your neck; you dodge him belligerently. He groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, nibbling. "Let me cool you off," he insists, muttering, teasingly licking at the sweat swarming your collarbone.

You suppress a shudder, shouldering him off of you gingerly— your glare was potent enough for him to brush off of you, although begrudgingly.

His plump lips downcast into a pout. "Do I have to beg?" He teases sinisterly, with a ardent quiver of his lips. "Please oh please, let me touch you." He mocks monotonously, exaggerating, extending his hand to you.

You swat him away indignantly. "The heat must be making you delusional," you murmur, draping your knuckles over his forehead, sweeping his disheveled hair back— unveiling the subtle wrinkles burrowing through his sun-kissed skin.

His hand engulfs your wrist, "There's nothing delusional about wanting to fuck you, babe," his canines twinkle as he grins wolfishly, and nips at your finger with his crooked teeth. "Everybody wants a piece of that ass."

A raw laugh emerges from your lips, a rowdy cackle, shoulders bristling at the amused echo resounding within your chest. "I do have a rather shapely ass," you agree resolutely, jeering, inclining your head to observe him.

His fixture on your face appeared marveled; as if he was fascinated by the sweat that beaded on your brow, the hints of physical exasperation that branded your skin.

"You're strange," you implicate. "Weird."

He blinks, chafing a chaste kiss to your knuckle. "I am?" He urges.