“It’s self-destructive.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s?—”
I kiss her.
Hard. Backing her up against the shelving unit until boxes of supplies rattle and shift.
She makes a sound—anger or want or both—and bites my lip hard enough to hurt.
“This is wrong,” she says against my mouth, but her hands are twisted in my shirt.
“Probably.”
“My mom’s dying.”
“I know.”
“You’re going to miss the opener because you’re an idiot.”
“I know.”
“I can’t stop thinking about Friday night.”
“Good.”
I lift her onto the shelf and she uses the leverage immediately, legs wrapping around me, yanking me between her thighs with a force that makes me groan. We kiss like it’s a fight we bothintend to win. Her teeth catching my lip when I try to control the pace, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise when she tries to pull away to breathe.
“We can’t do this here,” she gasps when I move to her neck, but her hands are under my shirt, nails dragging across my back and all I want to do is find a surface that isn’t surrounded by medical supplies.
But neither of us stops.
I’m gripping her thighs, thumb pressing into the muscle I’ve watched her stretch a hundred times, and she rocks against me and I bite her shoulder to keep from saying something stupid like how much I’ve wanted this, wanted her.
She gasps and rocks again, harder, and I groan into her neck.
The door opens.
“Oh shit!” Jake slams it shut immediately. “Sorry! So sorry! Did not see anything!”
We freeze.
Marnie’s legs are still around me. My hand is so far up her shirt I can feel her racing heartbeat against my palm.
“Fuck,” she breathes, unwrapping her legs and sliding off the shelf.
We’re both breathing hard, staring at each other in the dim closet light. Her hair is wrecked. Her lips are swollen. There are red marks on her throat from my mouth.
“Jake’s going to tell everyone,” she says, trying to fix her shirt with shaking hands.
“No he won’t.”
“He literally just saw us?—”
“He won’t say anything that matters.” I catch her hand before she can smooth her hair. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
