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“I can’t,” I say. “I told my neighbor I’d feed her cat while she was out of town.”
“Let me put your father to bed then I’ll drive you home,” my mom says.
“It’s fine, Mom. I can take a cab.”
Paul’s deep voice next to me: “I’ll take her. I haven’t been drinking. It’ll be safer that way.”
I pull in a breath and hold it until my lungs feel like they might explode.
Safer for me maybe, but who will save Paul from me when I get him alone?
“Are you sure?” my mom asks. “You just got into town. I can’t ask you to do that.” Her words lack any sincerity. She doesn’t want to go anywhere, but I know she will if she has to.
Yes, he’s goddamn sure! Go to sleep already. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back my words.
“I insist,” Paul says. He looks at me with an intensity that weakens my joints.
After saying goodnight to my parents, Paul and I leave. His truck is blocked in, so we take my mom’s Mercedes. The entire ride to my apartment is filled with casual conversation and minor flirting. I start to wonder if that’s all this is for him; harmless fun. But then I think about the way he slapped my ass in the pool, and how he touched me … Even if it is harmless for now, I have a feeling he’ll change his mind in the right setting.
We get to my apartment. I’m afraid he’s going to drop me off and leave, but he turns the car off and says, “Let’s see this place of yours.”
We walk up the stairs and I open the door. I have to kick my shoes out of the way to clear a path for us to walk. It’s a mess.
“Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t had the chance to clean lately. Whenever I’m not at school I’m at work.”
He smiles. “Don’t worry about it. I was a student once, too.”
“I have to run next door and feed the cat. I’ll be right back. There’s beer and soda in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”
I run next door, fumbling with the key. I don’t know my neighbors all that well, so it was a bit of a surprise when she asked me to go inside her place and feed her cat while she was gone, but whatever. The bowl is still half full, the cat lazing on the couch, not even acknowledging my existence. I hurry and fill the bowl with food and the other with water and head back to my apartment.
When I come back, Paul is in the kitchen, filling the sink with soapy water.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Helping you out. It’s your birthday; take a load off.”
I’m not going to argue. There’s something kind of sexy about watching a man clean.
“That was some party,” he says over the clank and clatter of dishes being washed. The sound is so jarring and real, and for the first time as an adult, I have him all to myself. I can have him. I know I can. I just have to be brave enough to take what I want.
I watch his shadow move across the floor and say, “I was genuinely surprised. Mom and Dad—and even Emily—are usually always so predictable. I’m glad you came.”
“Me too,” he says.
Shaking out the nerves, I push out my chest and raise my chin. I’m a Viking. A raider. He’s mine. I’ll beat him over the head with a club and drag him to my room if I have to.
“Cute apartment,” he says.
He wants to make small talk and that’s fine, but we can do that after several orgasms. Right now I have the female equivalent of blue balls and an itch that desperately needs to be scratched.
I poke my head around the doorway. Not exactly the charging Viking I’d pumped myself up to be. I’m getting to that. Baby steps.
“Thanks.”
Watching him move around my kitchen, I can imagine domestic bliss with him, rubbing his feet at the end of a hard day’s work, putting a baby to bed then making love all night. Imagining what it would be like to warm his bed every night has all the pent-up tension from the day starting to drip down my leg.
I go into the small kitchen. It’s a hideous tight space with black and white checkered laminate flooring, crooked cupboard doors, and chipped counter tops. We can’t move without bumping into each other. I slide in behind him, holding on to him and pressing my breasts against the tight column of muscle in his back. He stiffens and makes a noise in the base of his throat I just barely hear over the sound of the faucet running.
“Sorry,” I say, squeezing past him. “I need to get a glass.”
When he tries to maneuver out of my way, stepping behind me, I press my backside against his groin, pinning him against the fridge.
“Rachael,” he says, voice low and cautious. “We can’t.” There’s no conviction behind his words.
He puts his hands on my hips as if to push me away, but makes no attempt at stopping me as I arch my back and begin rolling my hips, cradling his growing cock in the cleft of my ass.
He groans and leans forward to press his lips against my neck. “We shouldn’t,” he says this time.
Can’t and shouldn’t are two very different things.
I close my eyes as he begins to rub against me. “But it’s my birthday,” I say.
He turns me around so that I face him. His eyes narrow, chest rising and falling as if he’s forcing himself to breathe. A tug-of-war plays out on his features, the pull between lust and guilt. I watch his battle until finally he swallows and crushes his lips against mine, kissing me. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth, gently nibbling and sucking. I moan into his open mouth. The tip of his tongue darts out, finding mine, tentatively at first, then winding together.
His tongue ripples over mine, gliding across my teeth and the ticklish spot on the roof of my mouth that raises goosebumps over my entire body when touched. He grasps the sides of my head, holding me like I might take flight if he were to let go—and it seems entirely possible because I’m buoyant. Floating. Inside, my body and mind are a perfect storm where everything is crashing together and coming apart and completely obliterated. No one has ever kissed me like this before, with such desperation, and I know that no other way of kissing will ever be satisfying after him. He will ruin me for everyone else who comes after. That thought is terrifying because I don’t want there to be anyone after Paul. For me, it’s always been about him. It will always be about him. I will chase this feeling to the end of the earth.
When we break for air, lungs heaving, I touch his abs, brush the tips of my fingers lightly over the muscles that cobble his stomach, caressing the micro-hairs. He shivers and leans forward, kissing my eyelids, my forehead, nose, chin. He kisses me everywhere on my face but my mouth, teasing me, sending me through the ceiling.
One hand cradles my head while another slides down my neck, down the middle of my chest, stopping on my ribs. He lifts my swimsuit cover to my waist and slips his hand beneath it. His thumb just barely touches the soft swell underneath my left breast around my bikini top. His skin is hot. Heat radiates into every part of me.
His entire hand rests on my right breast now. I lean forward, encouraging him to grip me, or squeeze, but he’s taking his time, savoring this. It’s a slow, agonizing exploration. This is the first time our age difference has become obvious to me. I’m used to young men my age diving right into the deep end without taking the time to get used to, and enjoy, the water. Part of me wants him to just rip off my bathing suit and be inside me already. But then this will be over, this lovely torture.
He’s watching me, our eyes locked together as his hand slides lower, touching the front of my bikini bottoms. I’m breathless as I wait for him to make his next move.
He must see the anguish I’m feeling, because his lips move into a teasing smile and he asks, “Is this what you want?”
Moving my hips, pushing myself into his hand, I say, “More than anything.”
