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Because he wants to see me.
Somewhere behind us there’s a splock, and a softer splock as the hard hat comes to rest. I can barely hear it over the hurricane of my pulse whooshing in my ears.
And I want him so bad, I’m shaking.
He fists my ponytail. My breath hitches as he slides the backs of his fingers up my throat, up to the tender underside of my chin. His touch sears me.
“Henry,” I say, trembling down to my toes.
“I love watching my name on your lips.” His voice is ragged.
Silently, I mouth his name: Henry. And then again, Hen—
He doesn’t let me finish; my lips are still open when he kisses me, a desperate, open-mouthed kiss with the fury of a thousand senselessly whirling stars.
He shoves his hand into my hair, cradling the back of my head, pressing me back against the cool concrete post.
I can feel the shape of him against my belly, huge and hard. I want to wrap myself around him, to dissolve around him. To obliterate myself on him.
His breath is ragged as he bends to get our lips level. I reach behind him, fitting hungry hands around his warm, solid back, digging in with my fingers a little.
He makes a growly sound as he rains kisses over my cheek, my neck, before taking my lips once again.
The cool breeze caresses my exposed legs, but underneath my clothes, sweat trickles down my spine.
The entire building seems to sway in time with my thundering pulse, in time with Henry, pressing himself to me.
Somewhere down on the street, trucks and cars rumble by and honking horns are answered by other honking horns.
He’s still wearing his own hard hat. It’s sexy.
His breath turns erratic as he runs his hands over the sides of my hips, up and down. “You and your skirts,” he says, like my skirts are a point of awesomeness.
Without warning, he grips my ass—clenches it hard—fingers like steely vise grips. He jerks me against his rock-hard erection and I gasp to feel the size of him through our clothes. “You feel that?” he snarls, notching himself to me, pulsing against me. “That’s how you have me every day. Damn! You already feel good.”
“Oh my god, yes,” I breathe. He presses me harder. His weight feels amazing. I gasp as he kisses my cheek, my neck. Every time he moves, the pressure between my legs changes and my ache builds.
I’m pulling up his shirt, freeing it from his pants and belt. Finally I get to his warm abs. I press my hands there. I’m a thief now, taking what’s not mine. Consuming his belly, rough smattering of hair over muscle.
I don’t care if it’s not real anymore. It’s real enough.
“I’ve imagined this for so long,” he says, pulling away, panting.
I shiver as he skims his fingertips over my sweater-clad breasts. “These fuzzy sweaters.”
“Take it off me,” I say. “Let me watch you unbutton it. Like before. How you started to before.”
“Have you been thinking about it?” he asks. “You been beating off to it?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
His fingers tremble as he unbuttons the pearl buttons of the sweater. I love that he’s trembling.
“Pull up your skirt, then,” he says.
I hunch over and pull it up, turning it inside out, gathering it up.
He pushes a hard-cut thigh between my legs. “Ride it. Move. I’m gonna need you good and wet.”
