That is the last thing I hear. Something primal propels me forward and I crash into him just as his arms are reaching. We collide, and it is a mess of desperate hands and mouths.
His lips are warm, and I grab the front of his shirt, clinging to him as if he might vanish, pulling him closer until there is no air left. He groans against my mouth and angles his head to deepen the kiss into something frantic and possessive. My hands claw at the fabric of his shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin.
He pulls back just enough to smash his lips down again, and his hands are suddenly everywhere: tracing my waist, gripping my hip, then urgently fumbling with the hem of my top. There is no gentleness, only the desperate, mutual need to shed the barriers between us.
Then someone else makes
