“No,” I say, gathering my makeup from the counter and tossing it into my pink bag. I turn around. His erection rubs against my stomach, and my sex is wetter than the ocean.

I want to go to town on his erection, but I want to do things the traditional way so I hurry out of the bathroom, grab my camera and his car keys on the way out the door, and wait in the building’s underground garage until he finishes getting dressed.

* * *

On our way to the fair, a two-hour drive from NYC to Atlantic City, we talked about everything: politics (we are both not into it); television shows (we agreed horror movies are overrated, and reality shows kill brain cells more than smoking); our views on music (I made him listen to Young Gunz and Muse, he still thinks modern rock music is garbage); his favorite colors (black and gray, which I already knew).

Instead of resting his hand on the gear or tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he keeps his hand intertwined with mine, or he rests his hand on my thigh. I don’t mind, his touch is comforting.

When Gunner pulls up to the parking lot, I grab my camera bag from the back seat and strap it over my shoulder, then exit the car.

He should have checked the weather before we drove all the way here. The sky is a happy gray, and black clouds hover over us, ready to unleash a beautiful thunderstorm.

As we stroll to the front entrance he grabs my hand and we head to the booth, bypassing the long line. Gunner paid extra for us so we won’t have to wait long in order to get on rides.

He slings his arm over my shoulder, meshing my body with his, kissing my lips. “I’m going to beat your ass in some games, dope you up on sugar, then after this date, I’m going to fuck you like I’ve wanted to do since I was twenty-one years old.”

He smacks my butt as I squeal.

* * *

“This date sucked,” I say, laughing as I shake my soaked hair like a wet dog. Our clothes are drenched from the rain. I love it—the way the cool drops splatter on my heated skin, and the way the thunder claps in the sky.