College Ruled

twenty-eight

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AS SOON as his lips touch mine, I know I'm not as drunk as I might have thought I was. His fingers latch onto my waist, tugging me closer, and my first thought is an unmistakably relieved:

        God I am so fucking glad I'm going to remember this tomorrow.

         I sigh into him when I get that first touch, and it's enough encouragement for him to surge forward — closer, if that's even possible. The base of my spine collides with the countertop, but I barely feel it, even as Grayson blows out an annoyed huff at the harsh movement.

         All I feel is him.

         His mouth moves against mine in a controlled rush, like he's worried he might not get enough of a taste of me before it ends. He drags his teeth along my lower lip, then his tongue, and it takes what little control I have left not to moan into his mouth.

          My body arches into his, pressing us together in all the minimal places we weren't already touching. It's the kind of mindless, bodily reaction that I might have found embarrassing if I were kissing anyone else. If Grayson didn't respond to the friction with a pleased groan.

        It's intoxicating — kissing him. It's bruising fingertips dipping under my jersey to grip my waist and the soft wisps of hair that brush my palms when I finally move my hands up his neck. It's the the quiet hums of approval that pass between us when our tongues finally touch.

I can already feel myself getting addicted to it all.

And really, I asked for this. It's entirely my own fault that it's not enough. That it will never be enough. That my hands will fist the soft chest of his T-shirt to try to yank him into me. That my lips will fight against his, harsh and biting, just to make sure he doesn't pull away first.

That the voice inside my head, that has truly never been louder, won't stop repeating the same word again and again.

More. More. More. More.

When we do break apart, I'm going to want to do it all over again. And that's my fault too.

        A rush of unease sweeps through me, mixing uncomfortably with the heat coursing in my veins.

I didn't prepare for this — the want, need, being this intense. Because this feels too fucking good to be what it truly is: one impulsive, mindless kiss. And I'm an idiot.

          Idiot. Idiot. Idiot—

         The hand that had rose to linger on the side of my jaw slides up and snags in my hair, pulling just enough to force me to break away. My scalp tingles under the pressure.

       My eyes snap open to glare — annoyed, despite the fears creeping up on me — at the man now holding me too far away from where I want to be.

I'm met with damp, scowling lips and the heat of his stare, now darkened to the color of graphite.

         "Stop," orders Grayson, the word a breathless growl, "thinking."

         "I'm not—" I start to protest, but he's not having it. He slants his mouth back over mine in a hateful rush before I can get the words out.

       I find that I'm a little bit too okay with it. A little bit too okay, in general, with being bossed and pushed around by him.

"Look at you." Grayson smirks against my mouth. His words are husky and warm, and I feel them against my skin. Taste them on my tongue. "So good at following directions."