The car door closes and Huxley is right there. Our kissing resumes. His shirt, the one I found so hot and sexy earlier, refuses to budge as I work to slip the button through the hole. He chuckles at each failed attempt, interrupting not only my concentration but a kiss, yet he refuses to help.
The two of us make it to the side of my building and I tug Huxley closer. The scratchy parts of the brick dig into my back as I lean against the wall for support. Huxley's hand spans from my hip, slipping under my shirt and stopping at my rib cage. The tip of his thumb arches out to rub against the bottom of my breast.
He gives me so little and leaves me wanting so much more. Kissing Huxley is a call to my soul. It's as if his lips can wash away all the pain and sorrow from the last couple of month
