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His hands grip my hips possessively, as if he’s finally caught the rare jewel in the middle of a dangerous trap. I’m pulled against a body far bigger than mine. Heat soaks into my body as an intoxicating smell fills my senses. A spicy cologne with a hint of sweat. Absolutely divine.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…
Our hips collide, and I’m pleased to find that there’s not a hard dick digging into my back. I like a man with control.
I gyrate against him, his hips matching my movements perfectly. Surprisingly, a smile breaks across my face. Starting out small and widening until I’m nearly laughing again. And somewhere between the end of Calabria and the middle of the next song, I stopped counting.
Still, I don’t look him in the face.
His touch stays strong and confident, but never crossing a line or roaming to inappropriate territories. Soft lips travel across my neck and shoulders, but he never sinks his teeth into the apple. He never loses control.
Oh, how I want him to.
It leaves me a wanting, writhing mess. The pulsating heat between my legs grows stronger with each song that passes us by.
I’m lost in him. So lost.
I want him. I want him wrapped around me as he loses himself inside me. I want to be wrapped around him when I ensnare him and don’t let go until the morning light creeps through my windows. Only then will I show his lost soul how to leave.
I ache for all of this without even seeing his face. His body chemistry tells me he’s attractive. He’s confident. Smooth, and languid.
And he aches for me too.
I’m snapped from my sweet fantasy when a desperate tug nearly pulls me from the universe our bodies created. My eyes snap open and Amelia’s green face is before me. Without having to ask, the hands leave my body and I’m left bereft and bone-chilling cold.
I don’t want to leave. My friend needs me, though. I step away without looking back. It hurts, but I don’t want a face attached to that fantasy. I’d rather he remain anonymous so I don’t look for him every place I go and in every face that passes me by.
ANGELS ARE FLOATING AROUND me, beckoning me to come closer. To crawl into the light—a painful blinding light that’s setting off a plethora of fireworks inside my head. I’m certainly not capable of fucking standing right now.
I’ll blow chunks everywhere if I do.
I groan, rolling over in my bed. The dorm room bed is normally not the most comfortable, but right now, it feels like I’m lying on a bed of rocks. My blankets feel like wet nylon and I think the little feathers in my pillow are poking through.
I’m still in last night’s dress, makeup is caked all over my face, and my mouth tastes like dead skunk.
I’ve never ate dead skunk, but I’m positive this is what it tastes like.
An answering groan sounds from the other side of the room where Amelia’s bed is.
“I fucking hate you,” Amelia growls, her voice raspy from sleep. I look over to see her waves of golden blonde hair spilling across her face, some of the strands stuck in her mouth. Usually Amelia is always sun-kissed, but right now she looks like a pale zombie. It doesn’t help that her make up is smeared across her face. I’m sure her racoon eyes look exactly like mine. We’d be able to walk onto a horror movie set and be instantly hired on the spot.
“I hate me, too.”
Even speaking right now sends sharp pinpricks of pain through my head. I try to remember if I have any classes today, but all of my thoughts are clogged in the toxins of alcohol. I give up trying to think, deciding I couldn’t care less if I have class today or not. Whatever day today is.
My head is pounding and nausea swirls in the trenches of my stomach as I attempt to sit up. Hopelessly, I look to my nightstand and find an empty bottle of water.
Ugh. Fuck drunk River. Couldn’t even set herself up for success before passing out.
Those goddamn Long Islands. They’re the fucking devil wrapped in a pretty bow.
“We need greasy food,” Amelia says as she sips on her full bottle of water. The sight has me irrationally frustrated, nearly to the point of tears. Why is drunk Amelia so much more successful than me?
Noting my distress, Amelia caps the bottle and tosses it to me. By the grace of god, it lands next to me on my bed instead of on the floor, where I was positive it would land with that sad throw. I sip the water gratefully, resisting the urge to chug it.
The thought of food makes me want to follow those annoying angels into the light. Who needs to be alive anyway? Let the wild have the fucking planet back. Nature deserves this planet more than we do anyway.
“Whoever throws up first is buying,” I say.
