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SNOG SCENE FROM SEVEN DIRTY WORDS:
“Come with me now.” He pulled me towards the line of trees only meters away from the center of the party. Caressed by shadows, we were hidden from sight.
His lips were on mine, his neck arched to reach me. Automatically my hands shifted up to his head, entwining in the dark strands. His tongue probed, tasting the champagne and caviar. Violent pulsations of lust beat at my skin.
A hand darted over my ribs, and I winced as he found the soft, tender spots of bruising. “You should get these looked at.” His head dipped to my neck; feathery kisses tickled my surface.
I wondered if I may actually melt beneath him as his touch became light, his fingertips dancing over the sensitive, wounded skin of my jaw. I felt utterly powerless. And it scared me.
“Please stop,” I begged, but my voice was weak, and sounded more like a mousey squeak than actual words.
I felt him hard against me as he pressed my back into the trunk of a towering spruce. It prickled through the satin fabric, and for a split second I worried that my dress may be ruined. “I want you.” His words were urgent, powerful, and filled with lust.
The moonlight fell through the canopy, splitting across his face. That indigo glare stoked a fire I thought had long died. His hand slipped to the hem of my dress, feeling his way beneath the thin fabric.
In the distance I could hear the chortle of the party, music playing softly on the warm breeze that danced around us.
He kissed me again, hard, moving his thigh between my legs, parting them while his hand felt for the thin strap of my thong.
“Please,” I tried again. “I can’t.” He heard me this time. Pulling away. Something flickered in his eyes. Anger? No. Not anger. A heavy mix of frustration, lust, and confusion. “I’m sorry.” The word trembled against my lips, fluttering like a dying butterfly. Common sense and logic told me I had nothing to apologize for, but in the depths of my despairing heart, I felt pity for the man before me.
I had spurred him on and led him down a path I knew wouldn’t and couldn’t lead to anywhere but regret.
“Don’t,” he whispered, placing a thick finger against my lips. Gentle pecks dotted the corner of my brow, narrowly avoiding the torn tissue. Smoothing down my dress for me, and readjusting himself, he looked at me with such intensity that I felt glued to the spot. I physically couldn’t move away from him.
“I’m sorry.” The word came again, stronger this time, but still with a cry tingeing it.
“No. I won’t have you saying that to me.”
I was confused. Tears brimmed against the walls, threatening to burst if he was kind to me.
“Please, Mr. Ellery.”
“Vance. You know me well enough to use my first name.”
“I don’t know you at all.” The harsh truth stopped us both. Neither of us knew the other. We were strangers caught in a whirlwind of pure lust and sexual tension.
“Then let’s fix that.” He stepped towards me and placed a kiss upon my lips. But it wasn’t fervent or hungry like the others. It was compassionate and gentle. “I will pick you up tomorrow evening and take you out for dinner.”
“Not to Matieus. I couldn’t,”
“No. Not to Matieus. Somewhere more private, where we can truly get to know each other.”
I smiled in agreement. It seemed odd to be so wanting of this man, someone who only moments ago I had detested with such a passion that it burned me. But I guess that is the power of driven lust. Hate one minute; desperate, aching need the next.
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