“I like hot chicks.” —Enjin’s famous words.

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The air was thick with cigarette smoke, the acrid scent making the already heavy atmosphere more oppressive. You and Enjin were already pressed close together; the cigarette in his mouth long forgotten as he went down to kiss you.

The smokiness of cigarette air from Enjin’s mouth was shotgunned into your own. You let out a light cough, exhaling and muttering an, “I hate when you do that.”

He let out a chuckle. “You don’t hate it as much as you believe you do, baby.”

The smoke danced around you both, giving you the already passionate night even more of an intensity. Moving with a hungry and desperate energy, you and your lover’s mix of lust and want was heavy.

His lips were everywhere, trailing down your body with heated pleasure. You let out a small moan, hands roaming around his bare back and his distinct tattoos. Your nails scratched his bare skin, and he let out a groan into your back.

“You kill me every time you do that, you know?” He smirked against your lips, his breath ragged with every word. “I mean, you treat my spine like it’s a scratching post.”

Your bodies remain tangled together— pressed so close that you were nearly one. He moved with a practiced rhythm; hands running over your body with a familiarity that came from many nights like this one, but the hunger never lessened one bit.