I pull him into a crooked, narrow hallway designed to feel claustrophobic, the space pushing us closer together.The flashing red lights cast strange shadows on his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the earnestness in his eyes. Something about the innocence, the privacy, and the absurdity of this moment, shared with him, feels so freeing.
Lost in the maze of bad angles, I bump into a wall, dragging Manny into me. When I turn around, he’s looking at me, his face inches from mine. Suddenly, the deafening shriek of pre-recorded ghost echoes fades into the distance as I get lost in his eyes.
I know I shouldn’t, I know we are both working through some things, but I can’t help myself as I step closer, and this time I find no hesitation in him. Whatever this is, he feels it too. The moment his face invades mine, my stomach drops. Those lips, those eyes, the mystery they conceal. I can't believe he’s offering them willingly. I didn't even realize I'm already leaning, lips pressing, arms firm against his chest.
Any cautious energy I’d been clinging to the past few days dissolves, replaced by a current so potent it steals the air from my lungs. The taste of him is intoxicating—faint remnants of whiskey and cola, and something that is uniquely him, warm and honest. It's not just a kiss; it's a collision—two forces drawn together in the manufactured dark, finding something startlingly real.
My initial response is a soft gasp of surprise and relief against his mouth. Then instinct takes over. My hand,which was resting tentatively on his chest, curls, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. The press of my lips turns into an uninhibited hunger, pouring all the loneliness of the past few days and all the soaring hope of tonight into it. This is what I wanted. This recognition. This fire.
His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him, erasing the remaining inches between us. A tremor runs through me—not from the cheesy spooky effects, but from the sheer, solid reality of his muscular form pressed to mine. He’s not scared, he’s not hesitating anymore, he’s right here, matching my intensity. His hand is firm on my back as if I’m the only thing that will anchor him.
The deeper we kiss, the harder we press, the more a primal realization bubbles up from deep in my bones. Men in my past, men like Manny, usually are terrified of me at this point. They are scared of the intensity, of how tightly I hold them as my mouth fights for dominance, demanding I be submissive. But Manny… he’s melting into it, surrendering to it with a quiet moan that vibrates against my lips. He’s not fighting my predatory advances; he’s welcoming them.
Feeling his total surrender, a slow, satisfied growl rumbles in my own chest. My teeth nip at his lower lip—a small act of possession. My hand abandons its grip on his shirt, sliding boldly down, tracing the solid ridges of his abdomen, exploring the terrain of him with undisguisedownership. I can feel the frantic, steady drumbeat of his heart against my palm, a wild percussion that matches my own.
“You feel it, don't you? My strength.” I pull back just enough to speak, my voice a husky whisper that slices through the ambient horror-show soundtrack. My forehead rests against his, my eyes locking onto his in the pulsating gloom. “And, you’re not afraid.”
All he can manage is a frantic nod as he stares at me in awe.
My other hand moves from his chest to cradle the back of his neck, my fingers tangling in the short hairs there. I hold him there, captive and willing. “Everyone tries to run,” I murmur, my thumb stroking the nape of his neck.
Manny pulls back, not trying to free himself, but in a humble act of asking. “I don’t ever want to run, but I do want to get out of here.”
The words cut cleanly through the manufactured horror and heady desire, landing with the electricity of the lightning strike that brought me life. I don’t want to stop, I don’t want to release him, but as I stare into his face, I know he’s not trying to flee; he wants me to devour him, to be devoured. Just... somewhere with better acoustics.
A slow, triumphant smile spreads across my lips, followed by a short, breathy laugh of pure exhilaration. I thread his fingers into mine and start running, pulling him toward the nearest emergency exit. We crash out into thehumid night, his heat burning every digit in my hand. My mind races to think of where we might go. Only one place comes to mind, and after the past few days, Gabby and V owe me this. “My hotel's three blocks from here.”
Just as we’re about to cross the street, Manny tugs on my arm. “That’s two blocks too many, I know somewhere closer.”
He pulls me back towards theShot Glass, the satisfying clack of my boots the soundtrack to our mischief. As we near, I see the lights are off, and the place is closed, impressed by his attention to detail. He gets to the door, fumbling with his keys, but the moment is catching back up to us, and I don’t want to wait anymore. I crash into him, nuzzling and biting the nape of his neck, angry we aren’t already inside.
I think I hear him mumble something about a cot in the back, but then I hear the lock turn, and I’m on him like he’s a wounded gazelle and I’m the hungriest lioness in the jungle. A snarl tears from my throat as my hands explore every inch of him, grasping his hips, tangling in his hair, scratching at his shoulders. I bite at the corded muscle of his neck, not gently this time, marking him, tasting the salt on his skin. All the while, he’s gripping me close, only illuminated by the few fairy lights still on in the bar and the light through the door before it finally closes with a boom.
To his credit, my prey is fierce, managing to collect me in his arms, cupping my thighs as my legs snake aroundhis waist. The raw dominance of the action sends a molten wave of desire through me. This is it. The chase, the capture. His grip on me is possessive, unapologetic, and I arch into it, grinding against him as he carries me through the unfamiliar labyrinth of the darkened bar. I claim his mouth again in a messy, demanding collision, fueled by hours of anticipation. There is no finesse left, only raw, unbridled need.
My fingers claw at the short hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to me, forcing the kiss deeper. My tongue duels with his, not seeking permission but laying claim. In this moment, I am not the poet-lover or the misunderstood monster. I am the hunter, and he is my willing prey, my partner in beautiful chaos.
“Wherever you're taking me,” I whisper into his ear, “I hope you throw away the key.”
I cling to him as he lowers me, my body aching for the warmth of his embrace, even as my mind leaps toward the promise of his touch. The cool, cracked vinyl of the bar stool jolts my heated skin, but that sensation vanishes the instant his hands return, sliding up under my shirt.
His fingers trace the pale, jagged seams of the stitches along my spine, sending a jolt through me—not of pain, but of profound, shattering acceptance. People flinch from them. He’s exploring them. My breath hitches, and a soft, broken sound escapes my lips. I lean into his touch,silently encouraging, baring not just my body but my entire history written in scars.
In response, my own hands become a map-maker on his torso. My palms glide over the landscape of his chest, learning the topography of him. I trace the swell of his pectoral muscles, my fingertips digging into the sensitive flesh, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart against my hand. I follow the rigid line of his sternum, my nails scraping lightly, testing his resilience.
His shirt is an impediment, a barrier I can no longer tolerate. With an impatient tug, I gather the fabric in my fists, yanking it upwards, my intent clear in the determined set of my jaw. The fabric rips off in one beastly act, and the feeling is tremendous. Not just in the fury pouring out of me, but in the way he leans into it, the gratefulness with which he accepts the destruction of his own clothes.
A pang of realization slashes through me as I reconcile the titanic form between my legs with the sensitive writer it contains. He’s my counter, someone who can understand what it’s like to be defined by a burden he never asked for, hungry to chart a new path. And the fact that he is surrendering to me, begging me to place my own fierce burden on him, makes it that much more arousing.
I laugh, a low, husky sound filled with dark delight as his raw honesty floods my senses. My body heeds his request instantly, as I peel my own jacket and shirt free. But there’s still too much fabric.My hands forge their way south with unerring purpose. My palm flattens against the rigid muscles of his abdomen, feeling them contract and quiver under my touch. My fingers explore the trail of hair below his navel, a teasing preview of the destination we're both hurtling towards. My touch is confident, deliberate, mapping his arousal as my own builds to an unbearable crescendo.
The moment my fingers meet his pants, his find mine, and we are in a race to see who can please the other faster. I free myself first, my jeans catching on my boots, but his follow only a moment later, leaving us frozen as we take in the curves and lines of each other’s glorious naked form.
I expect him to lunge forward with renewed tenacity, the same burning I can still feel making me writhe as I look at the specimen I’m in the middle of claiming. But something shifts, not reluctance, not withdrawal. His eyes meet mine, and I see it. The shift is seismic. The frantic heat in his gaze has transformed, deepened into something I am terrifyingly unprepared for. It's something like reverence. Adoration. Worship.
My breath catches in my throat. A tremor starts in my hands and spreads through my entire body. My whole being is laid bare before him—not just the scarred flesh, but the wounded, hopeful soul that resides within it.
He sinks to his knees before me.
