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I take the joint without thinking, take a puff.
“See?” she says. “Not so bad.”
“Here’s a deal: I join you if you promise this is the last of this. If the others find out, it could look bad. The company could get bad press too, if this got out.”
Mid-puff, she giggles. “You already joined me, boss.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Even with my stern glare, she just giggles some more. Then, finally, she places a hand on her heart. “Alright, I promise.” She extends her pinky finger. “Want me to pinky swear too?”
The prospect of touching her makes me swallow, although I don’t so much as look at her tempting outstretched pinky, just tell her, “Good.”
After the next puff, I begin to feel the effects. The weight resting on my shoulders slackens, loosens.
My fingertips run absently along the bark, enjoying the intricacies of the different textures, grooves and dips and smooth patches amidst the soft fluff of moss. I keep my gaze straight ahead, into the impenetrable blackness of the forest. As if I don’t know full well what I long to actually run my fingers over, feel the grooves and softness and give and…
Greyson.
I can smell her, too, like some tempting jungle fruit I don’t know the name for yet.
We pass the joint back and forth, our fingers brushing, every touch akin to an electrical shock. I’d leave except she seems so… relaxed. If something was happening she wouldn’t be so relaxed, right?
Right?
My head is clogged with her, what I have to do, what I can’t do.
At some point, the sides of our legs touch. And though I know I have to move, I can’t seem to get the message to my legs.
Once the joint goes out, her head droops onto my shoulder, rests there. I force my eyes not to look at her, to see if she’s enjoying this added contact as much as I am. Fuck me. I’m the hardest I’ve ever been without watching porn. This is fucking stupid.
She lets out a little sigh. “I am sorry, you know.”
I don’t say anything, but she goes on as if I did. “OK, you may have had a point. Maybe it was a bit reckless and disrespectful, smoking just now, out here alone. I just couldn’t help myself.”
I swallow. Couldn’t help myself. Before, I wouldn’t say I knew the feeling, but now…
Get out, leave, my thoughts are snapping.
And… I can’t move.
She’s still speaking, her voice easy and resonant in the night. “I just—stress is so unnecessary, the way I see it. At least for me. We push and push and push to get things, and when we get them, we just push some more.” She chuckles at herself. “Sorry, getting all metaphysical there. What I mean is: pot helps me relax, enjoy myself more. Not that I wasn’t before, just, you’re a big deal, and I’m new, and I actually think you’re really cool in person, which a lot of these big deal people aren’t, which makes it all worse, and…”
That’s it.
My lips find hers, and as soon as they do, it’s clear: she was just talking to fill the space before this. There never could’ve been anything else but this.
As thought ebbs away as our lips meet and remeet and swirl and twist with absolute perfection, I find myself thinking of those words. How she was right.
For the first time in what seems like months, as I kiss her, my mind is going blessedly blank, relaxed with nothing more than pure enjoyment.Chapter 6Harley
Oh, yes.
Fantasy has nothing on reality, as far as kissing Greyson is concerned. His lips are the perfect balance between giving and taking, which for me means a whole lot more taking. They lead mine in a dance his tongue soon joins in.
He tastes like the sausages we had for dinner, and smells like that maddening pine. Half a minute of kissing and I’m wet already, and we’ve barely begun.
The pot strengthens every sense: makes his fingers combing down my back nearly maddening, his lips on my throat ecstasy. This would be glorious without the pot—Greyson knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure—but with, it’s almost unbearable.
Our fingers explore each other, my shoulders, arms, sides, hips tingling pleasure with his touch. His body is lean but fit, ridged with compact muscles I bring my lips onto. The shirt’s getting in the way, though.
“Hmm,” I say, catching his eye.
We undo his button-up together, chuckling at how difficult it is, when all we want to do is touch each other, feel.
We’re doing a whole lot of that right now. He runs his fingers through my waves, then, suddenly, grabs and brings the side of my head to his lips. Pain mingles with pleasure as he laps at my ear.
“You’re fucking gorgeous.”
It’s part accusation, part worship. When I pull back to tease him with a “Thanks, boss,” his growl yanks me right back to him.
