This is supposed to be real life. This is not supposed to be neon smudges against her skin and ivory grazing down it – teeth and tongue and lips parading down her body almost desperately. She listens to the relative silence, broken only by his heavy breathing – her gasping lungs.

They are so fickle and she would laugh if she could catch her breath. But they're on an on and she can't. And his fingers trail at the edge of her jeans – way down low on her hips – and he's found her pulse and her breath is catching – and. And.

She knows that if they dusted her for fingerprints he'd be all over her. Staking his claim. Which is ridiculous in the light of day but somehow perfectly logical when his thumb brushes her abdomen just like that.

Her desperate fingers find his face, pulling his lips back to hers forcefully. As his hand travels down – past buttons, past zippers and seams – pressing firmly through coarse denim until her hips buck as her body contorts. Her mouth drops open.

They will be on the outs again tomorrow and she should make him stop – but his body is almost flush against her and his dad is out of town. They've never been a very rational thing.

They both miss a dead girl and she's letting him take whatever he wants in the 'family' room – except that it's absurd because he doesn't have a family – her head crooked awkwardly against an armrest. They could have used a bed, but that would be pre-empting and she would never give him that kind satisfaction.

She gasps against his mouth, eliciting a low moan. Her shoes are strewn on the floor. He mumbles something into her lips but she doesn't try to hear, there's no reason to make this more complicated. The best she can hope for is a "don't stop" but she's not doing anything but shivering. Rapid little motions of skin and air.

His hand thrusts into her hair, his leg firmly between her thighs and she's not sure when they're supposed to stop.

This is supposed to be real life – but they both miss a dead girl and his dad is out of town.

So, she wraps a hand round his neck and one round his waist and hopes for the best, her eyes falling closed with pulse points and hot flesh. They are both fully clothed. She feels horribly exposed.

He tugs at her bottom lip with his teeth and she snaps back to reality – hands running down his back. She thinks they need a safety word.

He moans her name into her throat and her fingers spasm. Grip, shake, grip. He is more firmly over her now – she wants him to be in love with her but she can't be sure he is. She grips him more tightly to her – arms firm around his back – and it is the chastest thing she has done all night. Her breathing slows, he slows. He is backing up, guiding her back into a sitting position without ever breaking a kiss, this is like sex in reverse.

His hand rests restlessly by her collarbone – hesitant – and as his lips pull away gently he rests his forehead against hers. She can feel his breath on her cheek. And it has been weeks now since they became a secret.

His lips brush against hers and she thinks about a dead girl. His hand falls on her shoulder, running down the length of her arm comfortably. He settles and she hopes he knows when to stop the next time because she has a body full of poison that she is trying to forget.