I haven’t had her in a week.”
He pushes his palm against the wall, his fingers flexing. “And because my fist is no good. My fist isn’t tight enough, no matter how much I clench it. And my fist isn’t wet enough, no matter how much I spit on my palm and grease up my cock, do you understand? So I’m going to need her.”
The tendons on his neck vibrate, the silver chain glittering even more as he continues, “I’m going to need your pouty little snatch. I’m going to need your snatch to run like a river for me because I’ve missed that. I’ve missed you polishing my cock up, making it shine with your juices like it’s some kind of a trophy. Some kind of a coveted prize that you want to buff and rub down between your legs. That’s why I came back early. That’s what I need from you.”
By the time he finishes, he’s rubbing our lips together. He’s half kissing me and I’m half delirious with lust.
I’m half delirious with his heat and his scent and the way he’s breathing in great gusts.
“I missed –”
“Shh, don’t talk.” He slowly shakes his head. “I’ve had a shitty fucking week, okay? And then I come to you for relief and find you dancing with someone else. It’s a miracle that I haven’t lost my shit yet. So don’t say a word. Just let me fuck that pussy.”
I grab his face then.
Somehow, in the midst of all the lust and love inside of me, I manage to break my hands away from his chest and put them on his harsh, ticking cheeks.
“Arrow, what happened? What are you –”
“Just let me feel good,” he says and destroys all my words with his raspy ones.
With his guttural, needy ones.
So I slide my hands away from his face and into his thick, sun-struck, messy hair. Because all my questions and words can wait. They are inconsequential anyway. In the face of his need.
“Okay. Fuck me. Make yourself feel good,” I whisper.
His chest expands on a long breath and I swear his eyelids become so heavy that his eyes are almost shut before he envelops my mouth in a kiss.
A hot and wet and desperate kiss.
The kind of a kiss that you give to someone when you see them after a year.
A decade, a century. A lifetime maybe.
This isn’t the way you kiss someone when you’ve only been away for a week. You don’t bite at each other’s lips and you don’t fill their mouths with needy noises and craving tongues.
You don’t even pull at each other’s clothes like this.
Like we’re doing.
My hands pull at his suit jacket and his fingers fumble with the buttons of my cargo pants. I rip open his shirt, to try to get to his bare chest, his bare heat and he tugs at my chunky sweater, trying to get to my naked waist, my soft tits.
You definitely don’t get so horny and needy, and almost naked in under ten seconds, in the back alley of a bar, hidden only partially by the dumpsters.
But maybe you do all of that, if you’re me and him.
Arrow and Salem.
Arrow and his fuck doll; and Salem and the love of her life.
That’s what we are, aren’t we?
He fucks me and I love him.
But whatever we are, whoever we are to each other, in this moment, I know he needs me and I need him.
So when he breaks his kiss, I whine. I literally whine and pull at his hair, trying to bring him back.
But he doesn’t listen.
He steps away from me, breaking my hold, and I stand there, panting. I stand there in only my thong and my t-shirt as I take in the damage that I’ve done to him.
I take in his half-open, wrinkled shirt, his dress pants unbuttoned and his belt dangling open, the silver buckle shining like the sun.
He is shining like the sun, his mouth glistening and swollen with my kisses, his eyes blazing as he does the same to me, takes me in, maybe to check the damage he’s done to me.
“Arrow?” I whisper, my tits heaving, pouty nipples poking through the shirt.
He lifts his gaze, his expression hard and unfathomable before he grabs my waist and spins me around.
My hands stumble and slap on the wall while he grabs my hips and pulls me back. My spine arches on its own and my nails dig into the brick wall.
I turn around to catch him squatting