Beneath the Boardwalk (Alex Turner) COMPLETE

35 {sex}

My lips tingled until he ground his mouth against mine.

It was like a music video, the energy. The way I felt when he sat on the couch and pulled me onto his lap was like heavy music. The thrumming bass under my feet, the melody of our lips humming against each other. He kissed me like he was a man starved by thirst, and I was the only glass of water in that hot desert, and he was trying to drown himself in that water. Heat poured off of him and I filled up the cracks, and we fit together like perfect pieces of completely separate puzzles.

We were constantly in motion. I felt Alex's legs move beneath me, him push into the bottom of my skirt, his hands on the back of my neck, working his fingers into my hair. My hands were on his shoulders and pressing him into the seat of the couch and the more I pushed the more we moved against each other. We didn't stop moving. 

There was so much pressure my lips would be swollen by morning. Lipstick stained the side of his face and over his jaw, and I moved my mouth behind his ear, whispering. "Red's a good colour on you."

He made a gutteral sound, moving his hands around my waist. I was pressed further into his lap. My toes curled. 

"You're right. I don't just want you inside my head," I mumbled, feeling his neck move underneath my mouth, feeling his throbbing pulse, feeling him grind underneath me. He shifted and I moved my hands over his chest, dropping my voice as my breath hitched. "I want you inside me."

"Fuck," Alex groaned. "God--can you get that fucking hoodie off?"

I moved my lips off from behind his ear and my fingers immediately went to the hem, tugging it up. I laughed, but the sound came from somewhere beneath my stomach. "When you're turned on, your vocabulary goes to shit."

"Sorry that my limited vernacular troubles you," he said roughly, helping me pull off my hoodie. 

"No, I like it." I was muffled by the sounds of my hoodie yanked off my head. "I like the way you say fuck. It has a sexy ring to it, Alex."

Immediately after the piece of clothing dropped I was pushed so I was laying on the couch. My head slammed onto the cushions. Alex had his hands on my ribs, just underneath my bra. The muscles in my stomach moved as his fingers trailed down to the waistband of my skirt. He pressed his lips on my chest, dragging them down and I shut my eyes. 

My blood boiled beneath my skin--an erratic pulse, throbbing at my thighs. He wasn't touching me where I needed it, just like he said. I writhed on the cushions. Alex dragged his mouth, his breath warm and hot and heavy, teeth causing friction against my thighs. My skirt was tugged off. I felt bare and vulnerable even though I still had my underwear on.

His grip was strong on my legs, the skin of his palms stuck to my thighs. His voice was firm and commanding. "Look at me."

My chest was heaving as I opened my eyes. Alex was sitting up, gripping my legs. There was nothing in his gaze that didn't scream desire. It pooled in his dark eyes, dripping onto my bare skin. Pink stained the side of his jaw, one that used to have a purple bruise on it. The sky bathed the room in sultry blue and I bit down on my red lip.

"I want my name on your tongue. It doesn't matter if you're addressing me, whispering it," the corner of his lips turned up. "Screaming it," he added, his hand sliding up my thigh, gripping my underwear, playing with the fabric under his fingers, "I'm only Alex now."

I nodded, lost in his gaze. 

He kept one hand stuck to my hip, and the other slowly undid the buttons on his shirt, one by one, until he shrugged the white shirt off. There was a thin film of sweat glistening on his collarbone, and his chest looked damp. The room was a thousand degrees. Our skin burned. He didn't touch me. His fingers traced circles around me. 

I knew what he was doing--making sure I wanted this. He wasn't going to do anything unless I wanted it. I was going to have to make the next move if anything else was going to happen. 

We'd wanted this for months--I couldn't wait any more.

So I sat up and shoved Alex down, straddling him, weaving my fingers in his hair and ground my lips against his.

He moaned. If I was fire, Alex was still the taste of ash--from crackling wood, warm and dusted grey, painted in red. We pressed into each other as if that might help cool us down, but it only fed the flames. 

We never stopped moving. He was writhing underneath me, adjusting himself on the couch, digging heels into cushions. Soon there wasn't any fabric between our bodies, and then there wasn't any air between our skin; he was deep inside me and I was digging my fingers in his shoulders, his name on my lips, mine on his. Hard and gripping, thrusting, sweat sliding off skin, panting by my ear, hot breath on my lips. 

I toyed with his fantasies. There would be red stained on his stomach, his thighs. I'd made my mark with the tattoo on his back, the lipstick on his hot skin. There was so much friction that I was afraid he'd rubbed off on me, and it felt so good it hurt. He'd grab at my hair, I'd run my tongue along his teeth and moan, thighs clenching with him in me. It was more than just sex--it was a rush, it was a high, it stripped us down and left no more barriers between us.

We edged close, backed away, taking our time until time caught back up with us and we couldn't stop any longer. 

He shudders when he comes, groaning with a sound behind his throat. The look he gives alone when he does so would drive me to my breaking point no matter where I was. It was more than just intense, it was a slip of vulnerability. It was want. It was passion and ache, pressing down on me, and it made my legs tremble. 

Those dark eyes were a drug of their own, and I was addicted.