giving in

He closed the gap, lips crashing onto hers with a hunger that had been building for lifetimes. Her gasp melted into his mouth, her hands sliding from his jaw to his shoulders as though she’d been holding herself back for years and could no longer manage it.

The kiss was wild, forbidden, and soaked in the heady wrongness that made it all the more intoxicating. Tom’s hand tangled in her damp hair, pulling her closer, while her body pressed against his, her blouse wrinkling between them as if cloth itself resented being in the way.

Her mouth opened to him, tentative at first, then hungrier. Her tongue met his, shy but then twining with his like she’d been starving for the taste and only just now realized it. A muffled, helpless moan slipped from her throat, vibrating into his mouth.

Sarah’s nails dug into his shoulders, not to push away but to anchor herself as if the world tilted under her feet. She broke from his lips with a gasp, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm, lipstick smudged, breathless.

“This—God, Tom—” she tried, but the words snagged in her throat, strangled by the heat flooding through her. Her eyes darted over his face, down to his lips, back up, fighting herself and losing.

He didn’t speak—he just watched her, pupils blown wide, jaw tight, his breath ragged. His hand still cradled her face like she was something he might break but couldn’t stop wanting.

And then she tipped, finally, completely.

She surged forward, kissing him again—harder, deeper, lips crashing, mouth greedy. The moan this time was longer, rougher, torn from someplace deep in her chest. Her hands, frantic now, slipped down from his shoulders to clutch at his chest, tugging at his shirt, needing to feel more of him, needing to know this wasn’t a dream she could still wake from.

When they parted for breath, her forehead rested against his, eyes squeezed shut, whispering as if confessing a sin:

“I shouldn’t… I can’t… but I want to.”

Her body betrayed her words, pressing flush to his, the soft heat of her breasts against his chest, her thighs brushing his as though begging him to close the last gap.

Her lips trembled against his as though she might pull back, but the tremor turned into another kiss, rougher, teeth grazing his lower lip before she sucked it between hers with a **** little whimper. Tom felt her fingers claw at his shirtfront, knuckles white with tension, pulling him closer until his chest pressed tight to hers, her heartbeat drumming frantic through the thin barrier of fabric.

She pulled at his shirt and they both stumbled out of the closet into the bedroom, turning around as they grasped at each other.

Her body was betraying every whispered protest. She tilted her hips, rubbing unconsciously against him, her skirt riding up just slightly as she did. The sweet powder of her perfume mingled with the rawer scent of her arousal rising, betraying her.

“Tom…” she gasped, but this time it wasn’t a warning, it was a plea.

Her hands moved again—one sliding up around the back of his neck, twining into his hair, tugging him closer; the other pressing against his stomach, then lower, trembling fingers brushing the edge of his waistband. The second she felt him, her pupils blew wide, lips parting with a choked sound like shock and hunger all tangled together.

“This is so wrong,” she whispered, but her voice was thick with lust, her thighs pressing together as if the admission only made her wetter.

She surged forward again, mouth claiming his in a kiss that was no longer tentative, no longer wavering. It was hungry, wet, deep, tongues sliding together as though she wanted to taste every inch of him. Her breath hitched into his mouth as her hips rocked forward, grinding now, seeking.

Her voice broke between kisses: “God—what are you doing to me—why..."

Tom’s hand slid down the curve of her waist, resting just above her hip. The fabric of her skirt was smooth beneath his palm, but he could feel the tremor of her muscles beneath. He squeezed gently, and she gasped into his mouth, her eyes snapping open, pupils huge, face flushed.

“Tom…” she breathed again, softer now, almost reverent, almost afraid. She didn’t pull away—her lips kept brushing his, each word grazing his mouth. Her forehead rested against his, her body trembling, as if she were balanced at the very edge of something enormous and terrifying.

And then, with a shuddering exhale, she let herself tip forward into it. Her hand slid past his waistband, fingers brushing him directly for the first time. The instant she felt the heat and hardness of him, a strangled sound tore from her throat, half a moan, half a sob.

“Oh my god…” Her hips jerked involuntarily, grinding against his thigh now, her body betraying the depth of her arousal. Her lips sought his again, ****, kissing him with abandon as her hand began to close around him, stroking tentatively, then with a firmer, hungrier rhythm.

Her whole frame shivered, as though she was realizing, with every second, that this was exactly what she wanted.