I’m practicing writing something a little “steamy” for a contest. I decided Reed was an easy target for the scene.
“Nice view –”
Before I can finish my sentence he has one hand behind my head and the other on the small of my back. His mouth crushes against mine, needy with traces of the tequila we were shooting earlier.
I stumble back against the stucco exterior of the high-rise. I only had a moment to take in the Atlantic Ocean sprawled in front of the building before he had me up against the wall.
A voice in my head tells me to pull away, but I tell it to shut up. It’s been months since a man has touched me like this, and I’m kind of enjoying the sensation of his tongue plunging inside my mouth.
I let out a groan as he tugs on my long hair, pulling himself closer against me, if that’s possible.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, no trace of genuine concern in his voice.
“No,” I say, not recognizing my own voice, low and guttural.
Now I find it’s me putting a hand behind his head and pulling him closer.
It’s only seconds before his hand is under my shirt, making small circles on my back. It’s nearly a hundred degrees out but the goose bumps appear on my skin anyway. Continue reading “Reed Callaway (Part 9)”