Page 76 of The Pleasure of Panic

But I have no idea who she really is, what kind of trouble she’s been in, or where she plans on being tomorrow.

With me. She’s going to be with me tomorrow.

She grinds her hips down, forcing my cock even deeper inside her.

“Yes,” she moans. “Yes.”

Her nails are digging into my shoulders, pinpricks of pain that mingle with the pleasure. She notices something—an expression on my face, or the growl that comes from my mouth—and takes these things as some kind of signal to do it again.

Which she does. Only this time her nails drag down the curve of my shoulder. When I look down, there’s a bright red welt rising up off my skin.

“You want it rough?” I say, grabbing her hair and pulling until her head jerks.

“I love it rough. I love it. Give it to me rough, Finn. Make me remember this night forever.”

But I only hear the begging. Not the warning of what’s coming tomorrow. Tomorrow is far away. Hours upon hours away. And hours to Issy and I are like years to other people. I have years to think about that last sentence.

I hug her tightly. Her legs grip my thighs like she knows what’s coming and she’ll do anything to keep my cock from slipping out of her pussy.

But it can’t be helped.

I rock forward, get my knees underneath me, then bounce her back onto the mattress.

She laughs like a girl. Like a woman who is about to get the fuck of her life. Her legs wrap around my middle, scissoring me in her grip, like she’s gonna use some secret jujitsu sex position on me.

God, I hope she does that.

“You like it this way?”

She nods, still laughing. “More,” she says, teasing me. “More.”

I reach behind my back, grab her ankles, and slowly push her legs open. She bites her lip, chews on it for a second, then closes her eyes and sucks in a breath of air when she’s spreadeagle, my hands pushing her knees into the mattress. I lean forward and kiss her belly.

She writhes, bucking and squirming, pressing her breasts up towards my face until her nipples seem to be begging for my lips.

I can’t deny them. Even if I wanted to, it’s beyond my control. My tongue flicks against her peaked nipple, making her moan, and then I nip it with my teeth. Not too hard, but hard enough to make her squeal, “More, more!” again.

“I’ve got more for you, don’t worry,” I say, backing away. Giving myself enough space so I can flip her over on her stomach. Her knees bend, feet swinging up until they hit my chest. I grab them both, bring them to my mouth, and kiss her toes.

This… I have to stop and laugh. Because this undoes her. She screams, “No! Oh, my God! No, no, no!”

But I just say, “Be still.”

“I’m ticklish! I told you that!” She laughs.

“I’m not gonna tickle you, Issy. Be still.”

“Just your touch—”

But she stops. Because I’m kissing the sole of her left foot, my lips barely brushing against her tickle spot.

She holds her breath. I know this, because I’m watching her. I count to ten, then fifteen, still kissing the soft pad of her foot. And then at twenty, it comes out in a rush.

And I say, “See?”

And she sees. She goes still. Her whole body stops fighting. Her mind relaxes as I hold her foot up to my lips.

I reach down and place my other hand flat on her back, right between her shoulder blades, pressing the breath out of her again. Pushing her down, stealing her air and making her exhale.