I don’t want to be soothed—I want to be fucked into oblivion.
Opening my eyes, I sink my fingers into his hair, gripping his head, and angle my face to deepen the kiss. My tongue pushes into his mouth, and my nails dig into his skull as I press against him, leaning over the console separating our seats. His breath catches, his hands sliding into my hair to grip it tightly in response, and a low growl rumbles deep in his chest as he responds with his own aggression, his teeth cutting into my lower lip as he kisses me back, harder and deeper, pressing me back toward my seat.
Yes, that’s it. My head spins, the heat inside me intensifying to a conflagration. He tastes like violence and male hunger, like punishment and love all mixed together. I can’t think under his sensual assault, and I don’t want to.
I want this.
I want him.
Somehow, the seat behind my back reclines, and then Peter is on top of me, the car shaking as he tears at my clothes, one hand delving under my blouse while the other reaches for the zipper of my pants. His callused palm is burning hot and rough as it slides across my bare stomach, and my eyes pop open long enough for me to see the car windows fogging up. It’s nearly enough to turn me lucid, to make me recall where we are, but then his hand moves lower, his kiss turning even more aggressive, and the maelstrom of need sweeps me away again.
I don’t know when or how he gets my pants and underwear down, or at what point I tear off the button on his jeans. All I know is that he’s suddenly inside me, so hard and thick it hurts. I cry out, panting as he starts fucking me in earnest, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down—and I don’t want him to. We go at it like animals, with no restraint or finesse, and when I come, clinging to him and screaming, he’s right there with me, in the madness that is our connection.
In the darkness that is our love.
11
Peter
I’m almost certain some neighbors saw what happened in our car in the parking lot—and I know my crew definitely did—but I don’t give a fuck as I lead a shaky Sara to the elevator. She’s as disheveled as I’ve ever seen her, her blouse buttoned crookedly and her hair a hot mess around her flushed face. I’m sure I look similar, and I can’t help grinning as we pass by a preppy couple pushing a stroller in the lobby. They give us a scandalized look, and Sara turns away, her cheeks flaming impossibly brighter.
It’s so cute. My poor ptichka is embarrassed by our little bout of semi-public sex—though she’s the one who initiated it.
“Don’t worry. We’re moving later this week,” I remind her as we enter the elevator, and she presses her forehead against the mirror, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she bangs a little fist on the glass.
“I can’t believe we did that. I just… Oh, God, I’ll never live this down.”
She sounds so mortified that I want to hug her. So I do exactly that, ignoring her attempts to push me away as I hold her. After a moment, she relaxes, and I stroke her tangled hair until the elevator reaches our floor.
Then I bend down and lift her into my arms to carry her to the apartment.
She doesn’t object, just hides her face against my neck as we pass by another neighbor in the hallway. The guy—a boy barely out of his teens, really—grins and gives me a thumbs up as he walks by.
If only the kid knew the whole story.
When we get to the door, I set Sara on her feet to get the keys, and she runs into the apartment as soon as I open it. I’m still taking off my shoes when I hear the shower come on, and by the time I join Sara there, she’s already stepping out of the tub, still adorably flushed and embarrassed-looking.
I’m glad to see her like this.
It sure beats the way she looked in the car after she learned about Monica’s stepfather’s demise.
“Do you think anyone actually saw us?” she asks anxiously, wrapping a towel around herself, and I bite back another grin as I start to undress.
“What do you think, ptichka?”
“Well, it’s late, and the parking lot is kind of dark, and—oh, shut up!” She slaps me on the arm as I drop my shirt in the laundry basket and start laughing, unable to help myself.
If nobody in this whole apartment complex saw the parked car rocking like a ship in a hurricane, I’ll eat my own foot.
She groans, hiding her face in her hands, but then she looks up, suddenly pale. “You don’t think we’ll get arrested, do you? For public indecency or something like that?”