You Must Be the One

Black- 2/2

Goddamn, the man knows how to kiss and he does until they're forced to part for air.

If she thought his eyes were beautiful before, it doesn't hold a candle to right at this very moment. They're a particular shade of blue she can't describe (for a writer, that was saying something), teemed with want. That was it---he wants her and it shows and it's fucking glorious.

It had been too long since she'd felt like she was desired by anyone and so unabashedly, too. He wasn't apologetic; he kissed her like the world was burning, no holding back, one hand cupping her face, thumb pressed into her jaw, the other on her hip.

"I should get home," she finally says. Her lower lip feels vaguely swollen and absently, she drags a finger across it.

It's really not a matter of having to be anywhere more so than it is her head is so light she's about to float away. She's fucked, no matter which way you slice it.

"Yeah?"

The timbre of his voice makes her squeeze her thighs together.

"Yeah, unfortunately. And I'm sure you have shit to do."

"Not really," he shrugs, eyes dark and hooded. "Once I broke up that scuffle, things seemed to calm down. The last thing a new bar needs is the cops showing up. Bad for business."

"But it's not new new," she can't help tease, "and believe me, the way the place looked before, the police driving by would have been the least of your problem-solving."

He regards her with a smirk. "You always say what you mean?"

"Always. What's the point otherwise?"

The smirk deepens and he tugs at her again, pulling her in. "That's a really attractive quality."

"Some men don't think so."

"Well, I'm not some men."

His lips are on her again and there's that fire. It starts in her toes, curling up into her ankles, her legs, twisting and winding up in the valley where her thighs part, into the recesses of her lower belly.

Over the years, she'd settled for less. No heat, barely a fucking flame, to be entirely honest...not because she didn't think she deserved it...deep down, she was a hopeless romantic. She wanted heat and intensity, love. Real genuine love and with each relationship, she opened herself up to it, hoped that spark would ignite, lead to something permanent.

This is all consuming, full body, mind completely in it, wanting to be devoured. Her fingers sink into the sinew of his biceps, her head tilts toward the wall to grant him access to her neck...her leg slides up to rest on his hip.

There's bad decisions and there are good decision and it takes her 0.5 seconds to come to the conclusion that this is a very, very good decision.

"Still wanna go home?"

The way he rasps the question into her ear, his mouth chasing a trail after it is entirely unfair.

"Someone will come back here eventually. To use the restroom."

"Mhmm," he agrees softly and it sends a tremor down her spine. "We'd better move along then."

"Are you suggesting I go home with you?" She raises an eyebrow. "Presumptuous."

He smiles against her temple. "Not presuming anything. More like an open invitation."

How turned on she is shouldn't have any on influence on her decision making process, but it does, and she's tempted to throw her better judgement completely out the window.