Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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I tossed my keys into the ceramic dish by the door and turned back to Marcel with a small smirk, amusedly eyeing the way he looked around my apartment.
"You've got that look," I remarked.
I tilted my head, dropping my briefcase by the door.
"What look?"
"The one that says you're trying to memorize everything before you disappear again."
He chuckled and just shook his head.
"You're never going to let that go are you?"
I stepped closer, my fingers brushing against his wrist.
"Maybe, maybe not," I hummed innocently.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. I watched his eyes soften as they met mine, and before I could second-guess myself, I took his face in my hands and kissed him again-slower this time, deeper.
He sighed into the kiss, his hands moving to my waist, sliding under the hem of my shirt with a practiced ease that sent heat crawling up my spine. When our mouths parted, he rested his forehead against mine, his breath warm and fast.
"You know, I was really mad at you," I murmured.
"I know," he replied, his voice deep and husky.
"But you keep kissing me like that, and I forget why," I breathed out, cringing at how desperate I sounded.
"Then I guess I'm doing something right," he laughed, tightening his grip around me.
I didn't bother answering that as he leaned in and pressed his lips to the side of my neck, just beneath my jaw. His teeth grazed the sensitive portion of my skin lightly, in an almost teasing manner, eliciting quiet moan built somewhere deep in my chest. His hands drifted lower, slipping around to my back, then down, pulling me flush against him.
It had been too long. Since when were we at the stage that even a week apart felt like a lifetime? My mind was still half-tangled in work, in plans and logistics and the impossible decision that loomed over us. But his mouth, his scent, the weight of his hands anchored me firmly in place- I was here, now. With him.
I backed him into the living room, barely breaking contact. Marcel's legs hit the couch, and he dropped onto it with a breathless thud, pulling me down with him. I landed straddling his lap, our bodies aligning with almost infuriating precision. I kissed him again, more passionately this time, hands tangled in his hair.
His tie and jacket came off first, followed by everything else that stood in the way of his bare skin and mine, torn off clumsily and flung somewhere into the room with a casual flick of my wrist. My clothes followed immediately after, joining his in one big pile. His skin was warm and smooth beneath my palms, the familiar curves and furrows of his muscular frame grounding me in him.
