Neither of us are willing to risk setting off the grenade until we get to the forty seventh floor.
I speak first.
One look.
Three words.
“Take me upstairs.”
???
We barely make it through the apartment door.
“Who on earth taught you how to put on a shirt?” I laugh, tugging at the hastily fastened mess Marco made as we leftthe club. “Here I was thinking you were a grown adult. A professional businessman.”
“Take it off then,” he sasses, holding his arms in the air.
“That's my intention,” I whisper.
A knee merges between my thighs as we fumble to find the light switch.
On. Off. On.
Darkness remains.
“It only works if we insert the swipe card.” Marco gropes the floor. “I think I dropped it.”
“Forget the card,” I say. “I want you naked.”
I back him against a pillar.
He starts to undress but I push his hand away playfully.
“No, no. Hands off. You can't be trusted with buttons.”
The glow from the tower next door casts beams of pale yellow across the floor.
Shadows soften as our eyes adjust to the night.
I undo the first one, a slow twist between my fingers.
“There's something you should know,” I sigh. “You may have seen it written on the laundry label of my shirts.”
“And what's that?”
Marco trails a finger across my lip.
“It says I need to kiss a devastatingly handsome man every time a button is undone.”
I demonstrate.
“Rules are rules,” he concedes.
Button after button, kiss after kiss, we both come undone.
Shirts and pants cascade onto the floor.
Lips trace a path across shoulders, necks and nipples.
