I can’t stop staring at your lips. It’s pathetic, really — the way my mind won’t let go of the thought of having them on mine again. I should be talking, saying something normal, but all I can think about is the way you tasted last time, the way you melted under me like you were made for it.

You tilt your head just enough to glance at me and my chest tightens. That look — God, it’s dangerous. My pulse is pounding low and deep, every beat pushing me closer to doing something I shouldn’t.

I imagine sliding my fingers under your shirt, feeling that soft, warm skin give way under my touch. I’d press you back, close the space between us until you could feel every inch of me. You’d gasp, your breath catching against my mouth as my thigh nudged between yours.

And I wouldn’t stop. I’d push until your legs were trembling, until I could hear that broken little sound I’ve been dying to pull from you.

I take one step closer. Your eyes don’t move. Neither do mine. My hand finds your jaw, tilts your face up, and then my mouth is on yours — hard, hungry, unapologetic. You make that sound, and it’s over for both of us.

The wall is at your back now, my body pinning you there. My tongue claims you, slow at first, then deeper, greedier. Your fingers twist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off you.