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Is the door locked?
No, there is no door.
Do I have a condom?
No, I haven’t had sex in two years.
Is this a one-way ticket to hell?
Yes.
June’s movements are languid and lazy as she swivels her hips on my lap, her fingers gliding through my hair while she strokes me with her other hand. “Maybe we don’t need to talk at all. If you want me,” she says breathily, “you can have me.”
As she gives me permission to fuck her on Kip’s couch, in his den, while dozens of party guests who see us as brother and sister are above us thinking we’re down here playing fucking checkers or something, a whiff of alcohol on her breath infiltrates my lungs.
It chokes me.
It wakes me the hell up.
With my face smashed against her cleavage, I breathe into her skin, “You want to know what’s not fair?” One of my arms wraps around her back, drawing her closer, while the other palms her breast. My thumb brushes over her pebbled nipple as I tug down the thin slip of bikini, then I drag my mouth over to it until I’m sucking it between my teeth. June whimpers desperately, squeezing my rock-hard erection with one hand and gripping my hair with the other. I lave my tongue over her breast, savoring the taste of her skin fused with salt and chlorine, before situating her bikini back into place. I glance up at her through hooded eyes. “It’s not fair that I can’t have the woman I’m madly in love with, who’s wriggling around in my lap, stroking me through my jeans, telling me that my cock would fucking wreck her.”
June stills, her forehead falling against mine. Inhaling sharply, she inches her hand away from my groin, breathing heavily, her skin prickled with goose bumps and painted in sunburn. Glazed blue eyes open slowly, almost as if she had been sleeping. Groggy, glimmering with confliction.
“I can’t have you,” I repeat.
I repeat it for her. I repeat it for me.
I can’t have you.
She swivels her forehead, reining in her feelings, trailing her hands up my chest until they rest on my shoulders. The tips of her wet hair chill my heated skin. “If I forget this by tomorrow, can…can you remind me? I don’t want to forget this moment,” she rasps out, curling her fingers around my T-shirt. Then her forehead slips from mine, and I’m worried she’s going to kiss me—I’m worried because I’m not sure I can stop it if she kisses me—but instead, she drops her head to the top of my shoulder, becoming deadweight in my lap. “Please remind me.”
June passes out almost instantly, and before someone can walk downstairs and discover us precariously entwined, I twist her off my lap and lay her on the couch, pulling an afghan off the back and draping it over her. Bending forward, I push a piece of hair out of her eyes and kiss her temple, whispering, “I won’t.”
29
FIRST TIME
BRANT, AGE 25
There’s something different about her tonight.
June stands before a full-length mirror just inside her parents’ bedroom, wearing a silky, baby-blue slip dress while clipping an earring back into place. I’m perched in the doorway, watching with measured fondness, when she tilts her head toward me.
A smile stretches, tender and real.
Her eyes glitter with unmistakable affection.
A piece of freshly blow-dried hair slips into her face, captivating me.
My hands are stuffed into my dress pants, my chest humming with something I can’t exactly pinpoint, as I murmur, “We’re about to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”
It’s Andrew’s fifty-seventh birthday.
Naturally, he’s positioned at the grill in a full-on suit with a metal spatula in his hand and platypus slippers on his feet.
June’s smile only brightens, a flash of teeth following her hair flip. “Be right there,” she tells me. “You look really handsome, by the way.”
“Oh…thanks, Junebug.” Instinctively, I glance down at my classier attire, from dark-gray slacks to a white dress shirt with navy pinstripes. The curls in my mop of hair are tamed with a little bit of gel as a I run a hand through them. “So do you.”
