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His tongue plunges into my mouth as he presses his hand against my panties. Every sense in my body turns on all at once. I can hear his soft, heavy breath, even with the air conditioning on full blast and the movie launching into some loud action sequence.
He keeps his hand flat against my panties, another one of his horrible, wonderful teases. I flood with want, squirming in my seat, kissing him harder and harder.
Then he runs his fingers over my panties. It's so light and gentle I can barely stand it. "Luke," I groan. "Touch me." But he keeps at it, his touch still light and slow and soft.
"You look too damn beautiful like this," he says. Then he kisses he, as hard as I was kissing him. His tongue swirls around mine as he slides his hands under the fabric of my panties.
Jesus Christ. My body burns from his touch. It's been too long. I kiss him back, harder than I ever thought was possible, and he rubs me with long, slow strokes. His hand is so soft and hard all at once, and I arch to meet his touch. I pull my dress to my waist, pull my panties out of the way. I don't care that someone could see. All I care about is him touching me, him delivering on his promise.
And he does. His soft touch gets harder, faster. I am so wet and desperate and full of need. He whispers in my ear, "I want to watch you come because it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I grab his shoulders, digging my nails into his back as he rubs me. I get closer, and closer, and closer, clenching as I fill with pleasure. And then his lips are on my neck, and my nails are on his skin. The pressure builds. It's too much. It's so much. It feels so damn good.
He rubs me, harder and harder, his kiss harder and harder, and everything in my body releases. I groan, "Luke," and he does nothing to stop me.
I'm sure someone turns, someone sees, someone notices, but I don't care.
CHAPTER TWO
Luke
Alyssa is relaxed on the drive home. She doesn't even protest when I promise we can pick her car up tomorrow. Instead, she curls up in the passenger seat, her head on my shoulder, her arms wrapped around mine.
"You seem tired," I say.
"Don't even start. I'm not that tired," she says. Her lips curl into a smile. She crosses and uncrosses her legs, the hem of her dress sliding up her thighs. I try and keep my eyes on the road, but it's hard. This is the first proper date we've had in weeks.
We've both been busy. She's always gone when I wake up, and when she gets home she barely has time to memorize her lines before she crashes on the couch. She's sweet. She tries to stay up wi
th me, lying next to me on the couch during one of my Law and Order marathons. But she always falls asleep in my lap by the time the jury comes back with a guilty verdict.
I used to be vigilant about getting out of work by six p.m., but I've been leaving work later and later.
"What are you thinking?" she asks. Her eyes are wide and bright. She's tired. She must be--she's been working fourteen-hour days for months. But she's as desperate as I am to make this night as amazing as it should be.
"You only have two weeks left of shooting," I say.
"Thank God. I can't wait to do nothing."
"What if you did nothing with me?"
"What do you have in mind?"
"Three days in San Diego. I'll take Monday off."
"What's in San Diego--besides the drugstore where you used to buy eyeliner?" she asks.
"You won't let go of that, will you?"
"At least tell me--did you wear black, brown, charcoal? I could see you in an electric blue or a shocking pink. Something from Urban Decay."
"Oh yeah?"
"Mhmm. You could pull off a lot of color. Or a black. Some nice, dark lines to draw even more attention to those gorgeous eyes."
We stop at a light, and she presses her hands against my cheek. I feel a rush of warmth. It's so good to be next to her. I never get sick of the feeling in my body, that sense that I'm home, that everything is going to be okay as long as I'm with her.
"You're obsessed," I say.
