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Fuck me.
Claim me.
“But you won’t distract me. Non-sexy fun is what we’re here for.”
I pout, and he traces my lip with his thumb. “Can’t we make out a little?”
“You’re dangerous, sweetheart.” But he kisses me all the same. Stroking my neck and cheek, carding a hand through my hair. It isn’t hot and heavy, but it draws the warmth from my gut into my chest and makes it burn.
That’s how things go for a while: laughing and playing and kissing. I didn’t know Corvin had that kind of playfulness in him.
Once he gets the hang of the skates, he even races me around the park, and that’s how we end up on the ground, cracking up with his arms around me keeping me close.
The sky is littered with stars, and thanks to the broken street lamps and no buildings around for miles, it’s just stars and fairy lights.
“You being friends with Blair is no fair. You know a shit ton about me, but I know fuck all about you.”
Corvin brushes a few stray curls from my face and strokes my cheek “All you have to do is ask. I’ve got no secrets.”
Except for the ones you keep for me.
“I’ve never heard you talk about your family.”
He rests his head on his arm, and I mirror him, lying facing each other on the concrete.
“Not much to tell. I grew up in foster care. Never got adopted or reunited with my parents. Not that they cared. Missed that first visit when I was seven and never heard from them again.”
Corvin shrugs and tightens the arm around my waist.
“Stayed in a group home for a while until I aged out. They run respite care now for foster kids over the holidays. For the kids whose new families or temporary ones don’t include them in their plans.”
I prop up on my elbow and try not to moan at the path his fingers make up my ribs. My hoodie got tossed off when I started to sweat, and my tank is no barrier to Corvin’s electric touch.
“Does that happen often?”
He nods. “More than you’d think. For some it’s a legality. Some just don’t want to deal with the paperwork. And some just see the kid as a paycheck. It sucks, but that’s how the system is.”
The contemplative look on his face says he’s holding something back. I poke his chest.
“What is it?”
When he shakes his head, I push again until he rolls to his back, keeping his arm around me and taking me with him. I situate myself over him, straddling his hips and crossing my arms as I stare down.
“Tell me.”
His hands slide under my shirt and grip my waist. “It’s part of why I want to be a social worker. Change the system from the inside, you know?”
“No, I didn’t know.” Because I’d never bothered to ask. Have I ever asked him what his major is?
“Has it ever mattered?”
No, and that’s the problem.
“I don’t know what I want,” I say, pressing my hands to his chest and leaning my weight forward.
He takes it without question.
“For a long time, my biggest goal was to transition. To be happy. Have fun. I didn’t have a plan for college. I just wanted to be with Atty. And then freshman year happened, and… I zeroed in on self defense. On partying. And hooking up. And everything they tell you college is good for.”
