Page 35 of More Than Water

Tongue. Lots of tongue.

Excessive tongue.

Slippery.

Deeply plunging.

My tongue.

Foster’s tongue.

Our tongues.

His mouth is on mine, impassioned and solid, as my eager hands clench his remarkably solid ass.

Holy hell, what in the shit is going on? What am I doing? What is he doing?

“Fozzie,” I mumble against his mouth, gasping for air.

“Yes, Evelyn?” he pants, pressing me harder against the wall.

The pressure of his blaring erection against my hip bone has my groin area seeking his. I’m like a teenager in the backseat of her parents’ car, looking for a stolen moment.

“What are we…”

“Do you want to stop?”

My head is screaming nothing in the negative or positive, but my body is yelling the same as I say, “No, not at all. You?”

“Not really.”

How did we get here?

Full of alcohol, Foster clumsily lifts me by my thighs, using the wall at my back to catch his balance. I wrap my legs around his waist, securing my body to his, and we continue to lock lips like savaged beasts on one of those animal-mating documentaries. With stumbled steps, he maneuvers us away from the kitchen in his apartment and down the hall toward what I assume is his bedroom.

I should be questioning what we’re doing.

I should be stopping this right now.

I should be ripping his clothes off because I’m so blazingly horny, and my vibrator is out of batteries.

He just feels so good.

The heat of his body.

His mouth on mine.

His hands on me.

His breath commingling with my own.

Fuck, it feels good.

Turning a corner, my knee collides with the doorframe.

“Ow. Fuck,” I cry out in protest.

“Sorry.” His sinful mouth drops to my neck, distracting me from the recent injury. “Do you want me to get some ice?”