Wrong. This was wrong. He shouldn't be kissing her. Definitely shouldn't be digging his hands into the wild mass of her hair. For sure should not be grinding his hips into hers in some godforsaken closet with nothing but a thin wooden door separating them from the club and its patrons. He groaned when her legs came up, wrapping around his waist as she shoved her tongue into his mouth. Moaned as her fingers dug viciously into his hair, pulling until he dug his fingers into her hips in warning. He tried, honestly tried, to think around the pounding lust, the suffocating haze of alochol. Tried to remember why he very much needed to stop this. But then she arched into him, breasts pressing into this chest, hips sliding evocatively against his, and his brain simply emptied of everything that wasn't the feel of her body, the sounds she was making, low in her throat.