She held my gaze for a beat. Then she reached up, unthreaded my belt, slow and deliberate. She looped it around my wrists before securin' them behind my back with a practiced efficiency that should've surprised me more than it did.
"Calvin—"
"Shh."
She swung a leg over my lap and settled her weight against me and every coherent thought I had left scattered like startled birds.
My lips reached for her face—needed her mouth, needed that connection that had been there every other time—but she turned her head and my lips caught her cheek instead. I tried again and she dipped her chin, fingers pressin' into my shoulders, a wordless and absolute refusal.
Okay. Alright.
I kissed her throat instead, just below her jaw, and felt her pulse jumpin' there. Fast. She was affected, despite whatever she was pretendin'. I dragged my lips down the side of her neck, scrapin' my teeth lightly against her skin, and felt the shiver move through her before she could stop it.
She moved against me and the sound that came out of me was disturbing, but I was well past carin' about that.
I wanted my hands. Wanted them on her hips, her waist, her face—wanted to tip her chin up and make her look at me the way she had every time before this. But my wrists were cinched behind my back. All I could do was sit there and take what she was giving me and try to remember how to breathe.
She set a torturous rhythm, the movin' against me through too many layers of denim. I groaned against her throat.
"Calvin." Her name came out rough. Desperate, if I was bein' honest. "Baby, look at me."
Nothin'. Just the weight of her body against mine and her face turned down and away, hair curtaining whatever was happening in her expression.
I turned my face into her neck and just held on.
She smelled like barn and summer and the faint ghost of shampoo from this morning's shower and underneath all of it, her. Just her. That dark, warm scent that had been livin' in the back of my brain since the first night she walked into The BP and looked at me like she could eat me alive.
My hips tried to roll up into hers of their own accord and she ground down harder, pinning me, controllin' the pace with an iron grip that would've made me laugh under literally any other circumstances.
I mouthed at her pulse point, her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder where her tank top had slipped. Anywhere she'd let me. Takin' whatever scraps she was willing to give because the alternative was nothin', and I couldn't stand nothin' right now.
"Look at me," I said again, quieter this time. Not a demand. Almost a plea. "Calvin, please."
Her rhythm faltered for just a half second.
Then her fingers dug deeper into my shoulders, and she moved faster, putting my beggin' to an end.
The heat of her was unbearable. The friction of it. The smell of her hair in my face and the sound of her breathing going ragged above me and the fact that I couldn't touch her, couldn't pull her closer, couldn't do a goddamn thing but sit there with my wrists bound behind my back while she took exactly what she needed and gave me nothin' in return but the maddening, relentless roll of her hips.
I was already embarrassingly close because she knew exactly what she was doin' and my body didn't care one bit about the alarm bells goin' off in the back of my head.
She came quietly, which was somehow worse than if she'd screamed. Just that sharp exhale I'd learned by heart, the clench of her fingers, her hips stutterin' once and going still.
And I?—
Well.
I'd like to say I held it together.
I did not hold it together.
The specific combination of her weight and her heat and the friction and the wanting and the fact that she'd been movin' against me like that for the better part of ten minutes without lettin' me touch her or kiss her or even look at her meant that I followed her over the edge about four seconds later with a muffled curse and my face buried in her hair and absolutely zero dignity left to speak of.
We sat there for a moment, both breathin' hard.
I pressed my lips to her temple. The only place I could reach.
She pulled back slightly at the contact. Not a flinch. Just… withdrawal. Incremental and intentional.
