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The way she’d move those hips while on top of me, riding my dick. Rolling and swaying. Slower, then faster. Palms flat on my chest, tits bouncing in time to her movements.
I bite down on my bottom lip with such violence I taste blood.
And even then, I can’t help but smile. Her energy and abandon is infectious. She opens her mouth and dips low, dips to the side. I dip to the other side, swaying my ass. We keep going like this, switching sides, dipping with our arms out to the side. She laughs and I laugh and it feels so good to move like this, to have fun like this, that I can see myself getting addicted to it.
This is the opposite of going through the motions. Of checking line items off my to-do list.
This is good, unclean fun, and I haven’t had nearly enough of it in my life lately. The two of us always took our studies seriously. We worked hard. But we played hard, too. It was a good balance.
Somewhere along the way, the work part of my life chipped away at the play until there was virtually none of it left.
Tonight, I’m reclaiming it.
My body is throbbing. Eva’s all over me, her hands on my sides, her fingers gliding into the hair at the nape of my neck when “I Wanna Sex You Up” comes on next.
I take her lead. I keep my hands—just barely—above her ass. Caressing her hips. My thumbs moving up either side of her spine when she turns her back to me.
When I was younger, I was moved by music like this. I was moved by all kinds of art. It made me feel.
I felt everything then.
Like I’m feeling everything right now. It’s not necessarily the music moving me, although that’s certainly not hurting. It’s Eva. The playful way she dances and touches and moves. The way she throws her head back to sing the lyrics when “This is How We Do It” comes on.
How she abandons herself completely to the moment.
“You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?” I shout at her.
Biting her lip, she smiles with her eyes and nods.
And then, without warning, she hooks her finger over the top button of my shirt.
She unbuttons it. Unbuttons the next button, too. Her fingertips grazing my skin. Making me sweat as she loosens my tie a little more.
Yeahhhh, I’m gonna be fully hard in five seconds if—
“Let your ridiculous out, too, Ford. I know it’s underneath this suit somewhere,” she says, leaning in and looking up. Tilting her head as if she’s about to come in for a kiss. God fuck yes now.
I let her unbutton one more button. I roll up my sleeves, one at a time, revealing several of my tattoos. I run a hand through my hair. It’s damp with sweat.
I put my other hand on her hip. Meet her eyes.
My heart is pounding.
Moving my hand lower, one inch at a time, I watch her eyes, waiting for her to tell me to stop. But she doesn’t. She presses her body more firmly against mine. Asking for more.
Desire, already simmering inside my skin, ignites. A match set to a mile long swath of gasoline.
I palm her ass. It’s soft, sweet, muscular, too. Firm. Fills my hand in such a satisfying way I want to scream.
Pressing her against me—holding her, keeping her right where I want her—we dance. One song then another and another.
The DJ whips out what appears to be an electronic clarinet, adding a nice little harmony to Petey Pablo. It’s like watching Kenny G. perform on drugs.
Eva looks at me and I look back and we both burst out laughing. Something inside me clicks into place.
We don’t stop dancing.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it’s getting late. Disappointment grips me a little tighter after each song ends. I need to check the time.
I need to get going, sooner rather than later.
I do not want this night to end. Almost feels like a religious experience, if Jesus were down with ass groping and early 2000s Snoop Dogg (how the hell did I forget classics like “Drop It Like It’s Hot” and “Gin and Juice” existed?).
I have no clue what the hell is going on between Eva and I. Our chemistry is clearly still there. So is our easy, immediate connection, our shared passion for authenticity. Taking risks.
Without even knowing it, I’d lost touch with this part of myself. The tattooed lover of Ludacris and late nights out.
A handful of hours with Eva, and she’s reconnected us. The guy in the suit and the guy who talks bravery over beer.
How the hell can I not want this woman?Chapter SevenEvaBy the time we stumble outside at half past eleven, Ford’s shirt is transparent with sweat. It clings to his body in the most delicious, most indecent way imaginable.
