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expanding to the surface of my skin and my fear sinking endlessly into
darkness.
I pulled away, gasping for breath. “We’re not done.”
“I know,” he said, picking up the bag. “I wanted to kiss you first.”
This time, he led the way around the catwalk to the front of the
billboard, where the lights were blinding and the faces were the size of a
house.
“What now?” he asked, squinting in the light.
I took out a can of blue and shook it. Click, click, click.
“Whatever.” I wanted to make a point, not art, so I scrawled a curly
moustache over the newscaster’s mouth because it was as high as I could
reach.
“You live here.” He popped a can of red. “Won’t they know it’s you?”
“Maybe they’ll ask.” I finished with a little flavor-saver under the lower
lip because I was a child. “But they have to catch us red-handed, so hurry
up.”
He reached up and scripted I want…
“What are you writing?”
“Patience, my star.”
…to fuck…
“Language, Mr. Crowne.” I jabbed him in the ribs under his
outstretched arm.
…my wife.
He tossed the can with the rest. “Now it’s in writing.”
His voice was liquid and solid at the same time. Forceful, impenetrable,
and mutable enough to fit into the shape of my desire. His kiss was fullness,
heat, the taste of what we could have had without the deals and contracts.
He grabbed my ass and lifted me until my legs were wrapped around his
hips and his erection was pressed against my heat.
“Inside you,” he growled, grinding into me. “Now.”
“Yes,” I groaned.
Holding me up, he navigated around the billboard to the back where it
was dark. He pushed me against the plywood, hands digging under my
stretchy pants, past my ass, driving the elastic down my thighs. Reaching
around, he ran his fingertips along my seam.
“I’m going to ruin this.” He teased my clit. “Drive so deep you can’t see
where I end and you begin.” He flicked the nub and I arched into him. “You