TITLE: Southern Hostility
GENRE: YA Dark Comedy
Salt. He tasted like salt.
He cupped his hand around my thigh, hiking my dress further up my leg. A bead of sweat rolled the length of my stomach. My hair fell in my face as I leaned over him. I pushed it back. Back. The way he kissed my neck was desperate.
This was supposed to be when all that sensory s*** kicked in. Smell, touch, taste, sound. I forced myself to think about it. His fingers slid down my back. All I could feel were his nails sinking into the fabric of my dress like cold pressure. I smelled sweat, my skin sliding against his. It mixed together; I wasn't sure I wanted that happening. My sweat, my pain. Mine.
I did things to try and make this work. He'd liked it before when I'd reached down, pulled the Duchuvony University baseball t-shirt over his head. Something about that was exciting, to know that this was going somewhere. Knowing that he would get something out of it. But why should it matter what he liked? It was supposed to be about what I liked, about my moment. I tried to concentrate on things I wanted—things that were all mine. His shoulders were perfect. Dark skin, tight muscles. It was like staring at a portrait in a museum. Beautiful, faraway, no real purpose.
He had a soft mouth, just enough touch. When he licked his lips, it was subtle. His whole process was subtle but felt so controlling.