kindle | become impassioned or excited

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2/11/17

"WHAT ARE YOU doing?" Asher's deep voice asks as it crawls against my skin. Slowly, sensually, tempting. His voice only spurring my body forward so it curls further into his hard and hot one.

I let a single pointer finger trace down his straight nose, over his soft plush lips, and down his chin until my finger grazes the naked skin of his warm chest. I let my nail dig in at the last moment causing a soft groan to escape his lips and to land heatedly on my bare freckled skin.

"Memorizing you," I answer with a faint whisper into the quiet dark room.

"Isn't a camera better for that?" he points out sarcastically.

A smile blooms across my face immediately. "You are right," I tell him deliberately before I shift, and sling my leg over his so I'm completely straddling his almost bare body. Bare beside his navy boxer briefs.

His boxer briefs. My boy shorts. The only pieces of fabric separating our hot bodies. His hands land on my slim hips under my ratty T-shirt, and pull me into him making an audible gasp fall from my lips. His dark eyes shining with a flame as they take in my body on top of him, pressing into him, melting into him.

"You better get to whatever point you're trying to make," he tells me almost breathlessly. Like he's holding himself back. As if he too feels the electric current that runs through our bodies, linking us. Making us pure energy, full with a want and need only we feel. Only we can experience.

"Or what?" I taunt letting my hands trace down his bare chest. His toned body is something I like far too much as my fingers faintly trace down his tan skin.

"Or I won't be responsible for what happens in the next five minutes," he tells me harshly as his fingers grip my body tighter only making me squirm more. His fire, his heat, the slight touch of roughness that fills him, all spills onto me and makes me want to burn for him. Burn in him.

"What would happen?" I ask because I can't help myself. Because Asher makes me lose every reasonable thought and bone in my body when he's around. He makes me reckless; he makes me want the flames. The passion. The burn. The inevitable fall out just so I can taste him. Touch him. Have him.

His dark eyes meet mine flashing with a heat that mimics the one settling between my thighs. "I'd kiss you here," he whispers through the thick air as his fingers slide up my body until they land gently on my neck. A small gasp fills my throat at the light touch. I've never had anyone touch me like he does. So assured, so dirty, so purely devilish. It sets me aflame in a way I never thought I could feel or want. But I do. I want it all. His hand squeezes the side of my neck ever so slightly, pressing his thumb into the base of my throat making a fire blaze through my body only chasing after more of his touch.

"Hmm..." I murmur needing more. Craving more, and he can feel it in the air. In my tone. In the way my body presses further into his as if I need to get closer. Have to get closer.

"I'd bite you here," he continues lazily letting his hand trail down my chest until his palm slides over my breast and grips it roughly. The single movement makes my head fall back and a breathless moan fly from my parted lips.

"Would you?" I pant wanting his hands on me even more. Wanting his fingers to play more with my aching chest.

I lift my head to watch his hand dive down further on my body. "This," he says referring to the lacy underwear that covers me, letting his fingers slip under the edge on my hip. "Would turn to shreds," he almost groans as he tugs at the side of underwear making the fabric bite into my skin.

"How caveman of you," I want to tease but the words come out breathy and needy and everything in between as my body lights for the boy beneath me.

"Maeleigh," he growls. The darkness in his eyes raging with flames and I know he's almost at his breaking point. A part of me wants to push him there, to see the side of him I haven't seen yet.

But I let myself pull back. Besides the making out and occasional fondling, Asher and I haven't done anything else. I keep saying I won't sleep with him, and he's oddly respectful of that. But I also know if I continue to push him, the respect will fly from every bone in his body and he will throw me down and do every dirty thing we both secretly want.

"Fine," I murmur as I reach over my nightstand to grab the blue Polaroid camera my mother gave me for my birthday last year.

I sit back on Asher's lap and let him relax into the mattress, as he sees what I'm doing. He places his hands behind his head as if he owns this room, rules it. And he does, because no matter where he is he stands out, he rules. I snap a quick picture letting the flash illuminate the dark room to capture a moment only it can. To capture the confidence that radiates off him like a drug. A drug that I'm breathing in and letting slowly change the things I want in this life. The things I desire.

"Why did you do that?" he asks simply.

"So I have proof," I tell him as the picture slides out of the camera. I pluck the picture and shake it lightly before setting the camera back on the nightstand alongside the picture. Letting the image come to life.

"Proof of what?" he questions with a slight tilt of his head.

"Proof it wasn't a dream when I wake up and see that you're gone," I tell him quietly though in the still room my words echo.

"How do you know I'll be gone?" he asks as if there's a possibility he won't leave once the sun kisses the sky.

"Won't you though," I say, knowing the answer. He won't stay over; he won't be beside me when I roll over to see the way his face brightens in the morning. To hear his raspy morning words. To feel the heat that radiates off his perfect body.

But instead of focusing on the bad, I turn my focus to him and press my lips to his.

My eyes flutter open as the bright morning light infiltrates my room. I open and close my eyes to try and adjust my gaze before flicking it over to the empty space beside me.

A sigh cuts through me fully aware he wouldn't be here when I woke up, and yet here I am a part of me hoping he would be around. Hoping he would make an exception for me, but while I know he feels something for me. I can't be mistaken about who Asher Lawton is, a selfish ass.

But an ass who when he touches me and kisses me makes me feel a fire from within I never thought someone like me could feel. It makes me feel confident and sexy in a way I never thought possible.

He's a drug. A drug I realized I've become completely addicted to, hungry for my next hit. For the touch of his magical fingers. Caress of his addictive lips on my own. He's everything I shouldn't want in this world, everything I should hate.

Especially after last night.

He kissed Francesca, I remind myself.

I want to hate him for kissing her. I want to be disgusted and never let him touch me again. I want to be angry, boiling mad. And part of me is all of those things mixed into one conflicted person.

Because a large part of me expected it, expected him to disappoint me in some way. So it doesn't surprise me or shock me, it's expected. It doesn't make it any hurt less per say, but expecting the pain helps curb the bite. The sting to the heart that's grown weak to one boy. One man.

The buzzing of my phone catches my attention as it lights up with a picture of my best friend. I reach for the phone, as I always do, but then I hesitate. Something I never do. Because when I sit up in my bed my eyes catch my reflection in the mirror that lies across the room from me. I take in my messy hair, my bruised lips, the hickey on my neck, and the smell of him fills my room lingering on the sheets he once resided in. He's everywhere, and yet he's not even mine.

I quickly grab the phone and swipe my finger across the screen to answer the call. "Morning," I let my voice rasp out.

"Mae you will not believe what happened last night!" Francesca exclaims loudly. Loud enough I pull the phone away from my ear as her voice shouts through the speaker of my phone.

"What?" I ask half-heartedly. Because I know what happened. I know Asher flirted with her, kissed her, and maybe even touched her.

And the most twisted part of it all, is as my best friend talks about her amazing night and the most magical kiss, all I can think of is the fact that he only kissed her because he was jealous. That the kiss she received was meant to hurt me because he was jealous of Brooklyn. Of him touching and dancing with me. I shouldn't love that; I shouldn't feel this dark satisfaction spiral through me making my heart beat faster.

But I do.

Asher may be bringing me closer to hell, but I'm not stopping him. I'm letting him drag me down. Letting him pull me deeper into the depths of his flaming pit.

"How was dancing with Brooks?" Francesca asks, pulling my attention back to the conversation at hand. After telling me the story of her and Asher's kiss of course.

"Fine," I shrug as my fingers slide over the purplish bruise on my neck. Distracted by the way it tingles; the way it stands out against my pale skin. The fact that Asher put it there, and marked me in a way that shows I belong to someone makes my blood boil from within.

"Well you looked like you were more than fine," she teases, but her words make me drop my hand from the mark that rests on me.

My eyebrows draw together. "What do you mean?" I ask, not understanding what she's getting at.

"You were very close," she says pointedly while drawing her words out.

"We were dancing," I state back, though my words come out almost defensively.

"Whatever, I'm just telling you what people saw," she responds easily.

"We are just friends," I reply, once again my words coming out a little harsher than I wanted. I cringe hating the way my words come across, hating that I care what people think in the first place.

"Well that's the kind of friends I want to be with Asher then," my best friend plays back.

I ignore her comment and roll my eyes. Brooklyn and I are just friends, nothing more. But at the same time the idea of Francesca touching him makes my skin crawl in a way that's unexpected.

"Well Asher's going to take me out," Francesca declares, and it's as if all the air has been sucked out of my room.

"Oh?" I ask innocently, though the thoughts in my head are far from innocent.

"Yeah, he told me so after he kissed me," she continues oblivious to the pain ricocheting through my chest at every word she speaks.

He didn't tell me that. That he made plans with Francesca after their kiss. That he plans to touch her again, and kiss her again. Maybe even more? Will he stay in her bed? Will he spend the night with her? Will he mark her the way he marked me?

Why does this hurt more than knowing they just simply kissed?

My body settles into the pillows on my bed as bile rises in my throat, the answer fills me immediately.

Because it's real.

Asher taking Francesca out on a date makes everything real. He may have kissed her to rile me up, to make me envious of what they shared. But asking her out on a date is what truly pushes me over the edge. The fact that I'm going behind my best friend's back to hook up with her crush. The fact that I hate Asher, but not enough in the way that matters. The fact that he's an ass, but so am I for hurting my best friend.

Our conversation finally dwindles to an end, and I promise Francesca that I am going to go shopping with her next week to prepare for her date. A date that's hurting me in a way I didn't expect. The dial tone echoes throughout my room as she ends the call from her end first.

I feel dirty, and slimy, and everything I never thought I was. As I pass by my mirror I realize I don't recognize myself anymore. I don't recognize the person I've become, and I don't know if that's something I'm mad about or something I'm secretly rejoicing. Do I want to be this person? Someone who sneaks behind their best friend's back? But do I also want to stop the feeling that consumes me whenever Asher touches me? It's selfish and stupid, but the idea of stopping fills me with an emotion I can't even comprehend.

My feet lead me slowly downstairs. My mother is probably wondering when I would emerge from my bedroom. I peak quickly into her room down the hall from mine to see her door wide open, and bed made. Almost like it was never slept in.

I take the stairs two at a time and turn the corner so I'm in the kitchen, the empty kitchen. My eyes wander through the rest of the house to only come to the conclusion that I'm alone. My mother isn't home. Did she even come home last night?

A small wave of uneasiness mixes within the emotions that are already pooling deep in the pit of my stomach. But then I remembered her saying something about going to the store early this morning, so a part of my worry settles.

I push away the rest of the emotions that want to fly though my body, and that want to fill me in a way that makes me almost nauseous. I quickly make my way back up to my room to find my phone and call my mother, or see if I missed any text messages from her in the meantime.

But before I can reach for my phone my eyes land on the Polaroid that sits on the edge of my nightstand. My fingers hesitantly reach out to grab onto the small picture, my eyes lingering on the moment I was able to capture. The rawness of the photo makes my heart beat faster as I take in the smirk that pulls at his lips, and his body that is obviously underneath mine.

It's everything I want. Everything I don't want to give up, no matter how much it may make me hate myself.

And as my eyes take in the writing at the bottom of the picture, I know it's what he wants as well.

Till next time