The wall is cold against my bare back. His hands are hot against my waist as they explore my skin. His touch is almost like a drug to me, leaving me breathless; my pores plea for every little caress they can get. His chest is bare, his shirt lying on the floor by his feet. I look up at his face, dark and seductive, and I run my fingers down between his eyebrows, the way I’ve always dreamt of doing.
Cole presses himself against me, sandwiching me between him and the wall. I trace my fingers on the small indentations that show signs of abs forming on his stomach as he kisses me, his tongue begging for entrance. There’s a low growling sound coming from the back of his throat and it makes me melt. I’m in ecstasy.
I can’t even explain how his hands feel on me, but I don’t want him to stop. His tongue finally makes his way in and courses over my own like a snake. His breath is hot and I feel it on my face each time he opens his mouth. His breathing gets faster, shorter, heavier, and more desperate. He crushes me to him; I don’t think we can get any closer than this. His hands are through my hair, pushing it back and balling it in his fists. Cole stumbles back towards the bed, me following clumsily along. We spin and the back of my thighs strike the bed hard. He disconnects the kiss and runs his lips down my neck, his hand sliding down my shoulder, dragging my bra strap along with it.
Cole pulls away and I look at him, but he’s no longer Cole. I’m staring into the brooding eyes of Christian. I hesitate, alarmed at the sudden change in appearance. What is happening?
Christian smirks down at me and connects his lips with mine. They taste like sand and something awful. His tongue slithers into my mouth and we fall back onto the bed. I try to push him off, but I feel my body resisting my brain. I want him off, my brain screams, but my body screams I need him to touch me!
There’s no way for me to resist. His fingers curl with mine and pin my hands above my head. An odd sound escapes my lips as he spreads my legs with his thighs, crawling between them and pushing himself down against me. I feel like my heart has stopped beating. His hands are on my waist now as he rubs himself against me, trailing kisses along my jaw. He groans in my ear and whispers “Oh God, Princess.” Even now, at a time like this – which shouldn’t be happening! – he still doesn’t use my actual name. My hands are wrapped around his neck, my fingers touching his shoulder blades. He takes a deep breath and pulls away, looking down at me with ferocious eyes.
He raises his hand, palm flat, and in a blur it swipes across my face, my cheek stinging on impact –
My eyes fly open and I’m breathing hard. I sit up and press the heels of my hands to my eyes, curling up between my legs. I’m still shaken from what I just dreamt of. Why did Cole turn into Christian? Why did Christian hit me? I look around and realize that it’s morning; the clock reads 9:38. Christian gets out in in twenty minutes. Should I still go see him, even after what I just experienced? My mind says that of course I should, it was only a dream. It’s not like that was real. I peel the covers away and go to take a quick shower. I’m out of the house within fifteen minutes and drive to the city as fast as I can.
I arrive within record time, pulling up just as Christian is descending the steps. I park and jump out of the car, running up onto the sidewalk. “Christian!”
He has an unlit cigarette between his lips, a lighter in his right hand. He squints into the sunlight, shading his eyes with his other hand. He no longer wears that orange jumpsuit, having replaced it with black jeans and a white short sleeve button up. He doesn’t seem to be disgusted with my presence, instead standing still at the bottom of the steps, waiting until I reach him. There’s dark circles under his eyes looking almost purple.
“Well, well. Look who decided to finally showed their face,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to keep the cigarette in place. He lights it.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He turns away from me and blows out a puff of smoke. “You haven’t been around for a couple days. I assumed you were done with me.”
“I could say the same about you,” I say shortly, shoving my hands into my back pockets.
He grunts and looks around. “Since when did you drive?” he asks, pointing at the car.
“Oh. Yesterday. I mean, I don’t have my license or anything, but my dad says I was pretty good at it already so –”
“I asked when, not your life story. You could have stopped at ‘yesterday.’”
I open my mouth to say something, but words elude me at the moment.
“I’m hungry,” he says. He stomps out his cigarette and picks it up to put in his pocket. He starts walking towards the car. “Let’s go eat.”
What? “Uh, I didn’t bring my wallet. I don’t have any money –”
“Don’t worry about it, Coconut. I got a friend who owes me.”
So with that, we’re sitting outside a taco shack with plates of food around us. There’s five different kind of tacos – fish, carnitas, chicken, and carne asada. There’s two beef burritos sitting directly in front of Christian and a medium-sized bowl of orange rice with shriveled up vegetables. Christian seems eager, taking large bits out of the bean burrito as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Was jail food that poor?
I pick at the rice, not very hungry, but I make an effort at eating one of the fish tacos. It’s free food and I’d feel bad if I didn’t eat any of it. It’s not that bad, just a little too much on the greasy side for my taste. With my mom as head chef at the house, we don’t eat very much greasy foods. Actually, we really don’t eat anything with grease. We’ve never ordered pizza from a restaurant; my mother would always make it herself. Instead of pizza dough she’d make the pizza on toasted wheat bread with three different kinds of cheeses and a pound of pepperoni. It was always so delicious.
Christian finishes the burrito and starts in on a chicken taco. He eats so fast he starts hiccuping and I laugh. He grins, elbow on the table, fist over his mouth as he chews. He hiccups come fast and hard and I can’t help but laugh at every single one of them. They seem to go on for hours. They even continue when we’re leaving the shack, and on the drive home.
“Dammit!” he laughs, another hiccup interrupting his jives. He chugs down half a bottle of water and then holds his breath for a minute or two. I grin, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. His cheeks start blooming with pink and he harshly lets his breath go. There’s silence, suspense coursing between us.
Then he hiccups again.
I burst out laughing.