Mess To Be Made

42

"Allie."

Allie.

The way he said my name, typically from an irritated rumble deep in his chest or an annoyed quip from the tip of his tongue, had always made my skin jump and core roil.

But having his lips pressed against mine when he said it. When my name was coming from that rumble deep in his chest while the tip of his tongue slid inside my mouth. It had me quivering with unruly desire.

My thoughts were everywhere and nowhere when he kissed me. I was constantly wondering how. How had I been with so many guys, yet not one of them made me feel like this.

It didn't make sense. Was I just being delusional right now? Was I making this out to be more than it was? Was I so far gone that Tyler was just a fairytale that I was indulging in?

But then there were moments where my mind felt placid and free and...nothing. All I could process was the feeling of his hands gripping my waist, like I was the steering wheel of his favorite car. Or his lips grazing the spot below my ear, like his breath was the ocean and my skin was the sand.

Or his fingers brushing against the underwire of my bra, teasing me. Because he's an asshole.

Just not like this, he had said. He was playing dirty. It was fucking rude.

It only made me kiss him harder.

"Allie," he repeated, this time with more conviction. Frustration.

I let out a grumble of curse words but continued tasting him, sucking and biting at his taut neck.

In response to my choice words and continued onslaught of kisses, he let out a familiar grumble that held warning, "You're going to have to put your shirt back on, otherwise I don't know if I can stay here much longer."

My lips, pursed while sucking on his neck, stopped. I couldn't help but let out a haughty laugh, even though my lower half was protesting with a throbbing desire. I let my head drop back and my arms retreat from around his neck with a conceding huff.

In one swift movement, he rolled off my body to lie beside me. Though one of his hands never left my shoulder, beginning to trace small designs on my skin.

I turned my head to look at him, to meet a hazel gaze that had already been transfixed on me. He was clearly struggling with where to look—my eyes, my shoulder, or my chest.

"You know," I started, my voice lazy with pleasure and drunk from his kisses. "I've never heard of a guy asking a girl to put her clothes back on."

Tyler's eyes closed, although I saw them roll into the back of his head as he removed his hand from my shoulder and turned on his back to refocus his gaze on the ceiling. "Yeah. Pretty sure I was dropped on the head as a child."

His sarcasm made my cheeks instantly ache from the smile that reigned over my lips. The corners of my eyes strained. I felt a wrinkle forming above my brow. A happy wrinkle. Right above my recently birthed stress wrinkle. I sat up, but turned to give him a quick wink before hopping off my bed to find a shirt to sleep in. "I think you turned out alright."

Now at my dresser, I remembered I was also still in jeans. I grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of pajama shorts before whipping around to look at Tyler, about to make a joke if he wanted to borrow my clothes to sleep in.

But my mouth fell agape and remained empty of words—just a hollow cave of stagnant air. He wasn't doing anything crazy. In fact, he hadn't moved from his spot on the bed, other than the fact that he was sitting up now.