The Girl in 6E

“Why?” He moved slightly, pulling away from her so he could concentrate on her face, the smooth, perfect lines of it, her pink swollen lips contrasting delicate features, her slightly upturned nose making her appear younger, more vulnerable.

She turned then, anger flashing in her eyes, betraying her innocence. Her eyes, a hazel blend of milk and dark chocolate hues, penetrated his very soul, and he lost a breath somewhere when they locked with his. “Why?” she gritted out, her white teeth looking less dangerous when they weren’t bared at him. “Why should you, an invader in my home, get off and let me get dressed? Are you daft? You’re lucky if you don’t get hauled off to jail for this!”

He laughed, which only seemed to further infuriate her. “I’ll let you up just as soon as I understand what is going on.” She was gone as instantly as she had come, her head turning to the side, her eyes closing briefly, shuttering closed to conversation.

He wanted to sit atop her forever, examine this strange, beautiful girl who he had imagined for so long, but he resisted. He moved his hand, turning her face to him, willing her eyes to open. But she ignored him, her eyes remaining closed, her face stiff. He moved his fingers, brushing her nude lips, trailing down her chin, neck, and over her collarbone. There was a slight hitch in her body beneath him, almost imperceptible, but he felt it and smiled. He spread his fingers over her skin, feeling the life re-enter her body, her ni**les stiffening to full attention. Her eyes snapped open. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop touching me. You’re a f**king creep.”

He tried to mask the recoil that ripped through him, but the truth of the matter smacked him into painful awareness. He was, in a sense, holding her hostage with his body and touching her when she didn’t want it. His hand flinched, pulled back from her, but he felt as if he had already branded her skin. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be. Now get the f**k off of me.” Venom seeped through her gritted teeth, and he shifted uneasily. He didn’t know what to do, and the indecisiveness killed him.

“If I get up, what are you going to do?”

She paused, biting her lower lip, then shrugged, the movement causing her br**sts to move. He closed his eyes involuntarily and spoke, “What exactly was your plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole—Tarzan woman, whooping and jumping off the bed at me—thing you did. What was your goal in getting my box cutters?”

She laughed softly, her damn br**sts heaving again, her stomach tightening beneath him. “It’s really, really sad that you don’t know what my intent was.”

“To kill me.” He tested the words on his tongue, doubting the validity of the statement.

Her eyes met his, bright and intelligent, and she nodded slowly. “Good. Smart boy.”

He ignored her mocking tone and grabbed her wrists, one in each hand, feeling the tiny bones in them come to life as she fought the movement. He pushed them down, on either side of her head, which caused her br**sts to rise as if offered to him. He looked away, swearing at himself for his damn lack of control. “Why? Why kill me?” He fixed his eyes on her lips, then her hair, and finally on her open, unashamed eyes, trying to look anywhere but at her body. His breath came hard, like his c**k that continued to surge against his pants, clamoring for freedom.

Her pink lips curved as she stared up at him. “Why not?”

“Why not? That’s not a reason, that’s crazy …” his voice trailed off on the last word, regretting the vocalization of his earlier thought, but she heard it, and her chin jutted out, eyes blazing.

“I don’t really give a damn what you think about it. But I’d appreciate it if you took your f**king hands off me and left me alone.” She pushed up with her pelvis, attempting to buck him off, and the pressure against his dick snapped the only thread holding him together. He dove down, letting go of her wrists and grabbing her head instead, pressing his mouth hungrily to hers. She resisted, her hand pushing against his hard chest. She opened her mouth to protest, and he took advantage of the opening, dipping his tongue inside her mouth. The flavor of cinnamon chewing gum instantly registered to his taste buds.

I was distracted; thoughts of killing him had hopped a bus and promised to be back next week. Irritated at the man still stubbornly in my apartment, I didn’t see his movement until it was too late. His hands were in my hair, hot breath on my face, and he was trying to kiss me—his soft lips pressed insistently on mine. I pushed against his hard chest and then he was there—in my mouth—his tongue tangled gently with mine. My own traitorous mouth responded, and my heart rate increased as my hands moved of their own accord up to his strong arms. His hands, entangled in my hair, grabbed and released my head. The smell of him invaded my senses. I had forgotten what it was like to kiss—to feel the response against my tongue, to feel his hot breath on my face when he pulled off me and stared into my eyes. His face was both tortured and confused. I didn’t like the searching look, the invasion into my soul, and I grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him back down. Everything was so foreign: the feel of warmth beneath my hands, the smell of something other than lube, books and food in my apartment. I tasted him, greedy for every sensation, my hands roaming everywhere, grabbing at his shirt, hastily undoing the buttons. His hands moved down, leaving my head, traveling hesitantly, slowly, until they reached my br**sts, and brushed my ni**les, softly caressing the curve of delicate skin. I gasped and froze.