Be My One Regret

be my 1 regret / 12

CAN'T FIX STUPID.....I've tried....

Who says you can't make out when you're in twenties? Because damn....parking was still a definite thing. And double damn, it was very much still hot. Like crazy hot. Like all my teenage fantasies come true hot.

Panties soaked, I lightly touch my fingertips to my lips. I smile. Sigh. Smile. Sigh. The elevator ride was only five minutes long, but I still feel Baz's expert mouth on mine. Marking me. Owning me. Claiming a stake. It's a dizzying effect. Euphoric even. And the exciting chill flutters over my skin, and I sag backward into the elevator's wall spinning with eagerness for what else his mouth and hands can do along with the raging hard on that I gyrated against thru the fabric of our clothes.

Oh dear God. That was the best seven minutes of heaven in a car ever. Hell yes, it was.

My inner thighs convulse, and I shiver. I tilt my head back and squeeze my knees together with a whimper of want. The remaining sensations of his hands and mouth on me linger, torture. As if his hands and mouth were still caressing me. I rub my flat palm over my neck and a  wave of tingles breaks loose over the skin. I glide my hand back and forth relishing the feel. Traces of his roguish lips were still flaming in small welts on my neck, my shoulder, and on the crest of my breast. Baz knew where to touch. Where to lick. Where to kiss. How much. How hard. How soft. It was methodical. Tactical. Tantric. Especially when he splayed his hands in sensitive places and glided his fingers into areas that most guys rushed their way thru like it was confusing. But not Baz. That territory was not foreign to him. Not in the slightest. Baz Bass knew exactly what to do and when and where. 

Exactly. With no words. Only action. Like a Kung Fu sex master.

No shit. I think foreplay was my definite new favorite of everything. I'd take that again and again. Whoa....yeah....

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. And I hazily step out soaring on my 'non-sex car make out' high. Blindly in a heady daze, I sillily giggle like I'm drunk and grab my keys from my clutch.

"Glad to see that your date wasn't a serial killer."

With one sentence my entire fuzzy, happy Baz-drunk fantasy stupor  flips on its head with a huge does of snide Tucker sobriety. I jerk my head up and snarl. "Are you fucking kidding me? For the second time tonight, what the hell are you doing here?"

The coy smirk and glistening green eyes don't fail. "So you're saying you're not happy to see me?"

"OHMYfuckingGawd!" I lash out and fumble faster with my keys to find the right one. "What is with you? This is getting creepy Tuck, even for you. Shouldn't you be balls deep in that twig legged Amazonian? Or was she too dim witted even for your acceptable standards? Or worse, you couldn't get off?" I daringly pat his cheek. "Aw, poor Tucker the Fucker, having a equipment failure issue and she kicked you to the curb. They say it happens the older you get. Viagra, it's your friend."

He grabs my wrist, and I squirm with reluctance from the compulsive radiant heat where our skin meets. His jaw ticks but his grin doesn't fade. "Extra spicy tonight, Beast. What? Did the douche bag kick you to the curb after he figured out that you're too much of a pain in the ass when you open that smart ass mouth of yours? Or is it that time of the month? I know how cranky you get. Must be hard to not have a guy want to kill the beaver when you're in heat the most."

The comeback was gross. Pointed. Sick. Unnecessary gross. And it pushes all my buttons. Ever. Single. Fucking. One. Sneering, I jerk my hand from his grasp. "Fuck you. And fuck this twisted need to show up when you're not wanted just to banter with me. Why don't you be smart for once and just go away. You've already ruined my night. So there, if you needed a win tonight, you succeeded."