Her body slows near the end, and as I exit the tunnel, I push one final time, bringing my legs to a straddle around her body at the end of the slide, my arms quickly enveloping her and bringing her into me. She’s still laughing, but when my hands find the bare tops of her thighs, she silences immediately, a sharp breath escaping her as her head falls back into my chest. In her race down the slide, her dress has risen up completely, the material pooled around her waist, and my hands couldn’t help but find home on her skin.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” I say, my touch frozen against her while we both sit, our bodies tangled on the flat landing of the slide, my mouth at her ear. I should probably move and let her get up. I’m not sure why I can’t, but I. Just. Can’t. Please, Paige—you’re going to have to lead on this one.
Her chest rises and falls. My chest rises and falls. And soon we’re in sync, a ragged rhythm that is making my hands feel tingling sensations, urges to claw their way up her body, to touch more than this. But I don’t dare until she says so.
“Houston,” she breathes. I shut my eyes and beg for her not to ask to go home. We’ll just have a picnic. I’ll leap out from my spot and give her my hand, help her with her dress. I’ll find her damn boots in the dark, sift through wood chips for an hour, until the sun comes up if I have to, just please don’t ask to go home, Paige.
She doesn’t say anything more as the seconds keep ticking by. I keep mentally begging, until I feel her hair tickle my chin as it slips to the side, along her back, along the bareness of her neck. It’s moving. She’s moving. She’s leaning her head to the side, her change in position long and subtle as her hand comes up to sweep the rest of her hair out of the way, her body leaning more into mine, her neck exposed.
I’m about to kiss her neck, and yeah, I’ve kissed her mouth, so this shouldn’t be a big deal. But this feels like a very big deal. I’m Dracula, and she is letting me have her, giving me a taste, knowing I won’t be able to stop. This is definitely submission. She’s submitting, right? My lips barely brush that part of her neck that dips into her shoulder, even this slight touch makes me want to bite and taste her more. But I’m careful; I’m slow.
“Paige,” I whisper, a mimic of how she said my name a minute before. She sighs when I speak, and I smile. I kiss more, letting the full weight of my mouth caress her skin. This time, she moans.
My hands act on their own, palms sliding up the tops of her legs until I reach the gathered material around the bend of her waist and grip it tightly, my mind consumed with the vision of what it would look like if I just ripped this damn dress off. I flex my fingers against her and feel the brush of her panties along the tips. The sensation makes my breath falter, so I return my focus to her neck, letting my tongue have its wish as I taste my way up her shoulder to her ear, tucking the delicate lobe between my teeth, letting my tongue run over the harsh metal and rock of her earring.
I’m content to stay here, to do this, for as long as she’ll let me. Then I feel her hands slide down my arms and reach into my fingers, squeezing before the sharpness of her nails drags slowly back up my arms. She makes it to my biceps before she can’t reach any farther; she lets her hands drift from my skin, bringing her arms over her head, reaching for me, my hair, my neck. The motion causes her body to arch, her legs shifting up and down, almost like she’s trying to rid herself of her dress.
My hands obey—pulling up the gathered material while my mouth continues to memorize every contour of her neck. My knuckles brush along the lace top of her panties, against the smoothness of her waist, the length of her belly to her ribs until I feel the material of her bra against the tips of my fingers. I pause, waiting for those two voices to show up on either shoulder, for good and evil to battle it out and let me know what I’m supposed to do next. But Paige isn’t waiting for either of them.
“Touch me,” she whispers, her head falling to the side against my arm, her own arms linked around my neck, her body splayed in my lap, waiting for me. I let my hands continue their path, moving over the roundness of her breasts, dragging the material slowly, feeling every breath she takes while my hands are traveling over her.
Her dress is pulled to the top of her chest, the white lace of her bra drawing a perfect line against her milky skin. My thumbs run along the edge, tracing the line between good and the best kind of evil—from one side of each breast to the other. Paige arches into me again, silently begging my hands to move, and for the first time with this girl, I feel like I might hold a sliver of power.