Snow

13 | don't get high on your own supply

❝it's harder and harder to get you to listen, more i get through the gears.
incapable of making alright decisions,
and having bad ideas.❞

❘❘

WHEN THE DOOR OPENS, I FLING MYSELF AT HIM. Our bodies collide; tumble to the floor; crash and fucking burn. A surprised groan tears up his throat, and when our lips lock, it melts into a lazy, lazy, lazy sound of pleasure.

It unravels the parts of me that are still strung together. I feel wild and frantic, an impulsive desire igniting fire in my fingertips.

The door slams shut behind us—a resounding echo that traps us together. Excitement spikes my blood with a lethal concoction of untapped and unexplored lust.

"Neva," he whispers into my lips. "¿Qué haces?"

"Nada," I say, and I mean it. "Nada."

I'm doing nothing; he is nothing.

As he pulls back, I tug on my bottom lip fiercely. I know he wants to fuck me. But the mild amusement on his face stalls me. "Jules isn't here."

"I don't care."

"I don't know if I can keep up with you, mamita."

A breathless laugh escapes, and a dizzy grin captures my lips. What a waste of worry. "No puedes," I tell him.

His dark eyes flash violently; it only reels me back into him. Knees knocking against wood, hands fumbling to catch his cheeks, teeth and tongues clashing with a fierce kiss. As I straddle him, he leans, sits up, squeezes me tighter to his chest.

"¿Estás drogado, Neva?"

I kiss him harder.

"Neva," he says my name firmly this time, fingers weaving through my hair. When I don't answer, he yanks at the roots. "Neva."

A loud moan falls free as we part; his lips finds my jaw, my throat, my collarbone. Fingers pry at my collar, fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt. My nails carve into skin; his teeth catch skin.

Skin. Skin. Skin.

"Yes, yes, yes..."

All I feel is a stinging thrill—a tingling euphoria in my veins, lingering in scalding, burning, blistering painful-pleasure.

I open my eyes, lashes fluttering with the warning in those hazy, brown eyes in front of me. Warm and soft, a fringe of darkness edging, inching, swallowing the mischievous glint.

There's something intoxicating about his slight hesitation. As I roll my hips over his, grind into the denim, and dare him to make the next move, a seductive grin blooms on his face. "Right here on the floor?"

"Bedroom," I breathe—a claim, an order, a desperate demand. "¿Sí?"

One blink.

I blink once, and then I'm off his lap. He's standing up, he's wrapping one hand around my forearm, he's wrenching me up to my feet, he's dragging me to the back of the apartment.

Yes. This is the part of him I want to dig out. This domineering, dangerously sexy persona I found the first night I met him—as he offered me a smooth-as-fuck smile and endless snowstorms.

Maybe it only comes out when he's high, or when I push him hard enough, but I'm willing to help him with both.

We skid to a stop in front of a door, and in one swift motion, he shoves it open; we both go hurtling into the dark room.