I’m waiting for the guilt to show up, the voice in my head that usually tells me I fucked up and need to fix it immediately, but there’s nothing except this weird lightness in my chest.
“Good,” I admit. “Weird, but good.”
“That’s the spirit.” She opens the passenger door and pauses, looking at me across the roof of the car, and she suddenly won’t meet my eyes, her fingers picking at the hem of her sweater. “I... um. I really want to kiss you right now.”
The girl who just cheated at mini golf and got us kicked out is looking at her shoes with a blush climbing up her neck and I realize she’s been like this the whole time. Bold until it actually matters.
I walk around the front of the car. I should probably say something smooth right now but I’ve never been smooth in my life so I just step into her space and back her against the passenger door as she looks up at me and the pulse jumps in her throat.
“I mean, if that’s what you want.” she says. “In case you were still figuring it out.”
“I’ve had it figured out since the third hole.” I slide my hand into her hair, tilting her head back. “I was just enjoying watching you pretend you weren’t thinking about it too.”
Her mouth opens and I kiss her. Whatever careful, polite version of myself I brought to this date leaves. She makes a small overwhelmed sound against my mouth and I swallow it, my tongue sweeping along the seam of her lips until she opens for me, and we’re kissing in a parking lot and I’m pressing her against a car and I don’t recognize any of this behavior as mine.
When I pull back she’s flushed, breathing hard, eyes fixed on my face. I’m not doing much better.
“Car,” I say. My voice comes out lower than I’ve ever heard it. “Get in the car.”
We make it maybe thirty seconds before she’s climbing over the center console into my lap. Or I’m pulling her. It’s unclear. Then she’s straddling me, her knees sinking into the leather on either side of my hips, and she’s watching me with those green eyes, and this is not how I expected mini golf to end.
“Hi,” I say, wrapping my hands around her waist.
“Hi.” She breathes. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah, Mackie. This is okay.”
I pull her down and kiss her again. The way she kisses is so honest it’s almost hard to take, eager and unguarded with nothing held back. I slide my hands under her sweater and she shivers at the cold of my fingers, then arches into me like she’s been waiting for exactly this, her nails dig into my shoulders.
“Too cold?” I murmur against her jaw.
“No. Don’t stop.”
I don’t. I let my hands travel and my brain does what it always does—tries to process, tries to file things into categories—but the categories are gone. There is no category for this girl, my hands on her, the way she rolls her hips down and I feel it everywhere at once and every coherent thought exits my body.
“Sorry,” she gasps, like that was an accident. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”
“Don’t apologize for that.” The voice saying it doesn’t sound like mine. I’m not thinking about angle or distance or what comes next. There’s no next. There’s only her, the weight of her, the sound she makes when I touch her—desperate and startled, like she surprised herself—and my hips answer before my brain can catch up and she gasps and grinds back down and suddenly we’re just doing this, fully clothed, after getting kicked out of mini golf,and I have never been less in control of my own body and I have never cared less about anything in my life.
I can feel everything through the denim. The heat, the pressure, the specific way her hips roll in these small, clumsy, frantic circles that she’s clearly not controlling anymore. My hands are gripping her ribs and I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my life and I want to slow this down, I want to be the version of myself that has a plan and knows what he’s doing, but she’s making these soft, broken sounds against my neck and my hips keep moving on their own and I am not, as it turns out, that version of myself at all.
“Zach.” Her voice is barely there. “I think I’m going to?—”
I can feel it building in my own body, this tightening low in my stomach that I know I should do something about, should slow down, should stop, except she shifts her angle slightly and presses down hard and I feel her come apart against me with a full-body shudder, her breath catching, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and that’s it, that’s all it takes, I’m gone.
I bury my face in her neck and come apart with a sound I’ve never made before, my hands gripping her hips like she’s the only solid thing in the universe, which right now she might actually be. I come in my jeans like a teenager, fully clothed, in the front seat of my car, in a parking lot, while the girl I barely asked out twelve hours ago shakes through her own orgasm on my lap.
We’re both breathing like we just did suicides at practice. There’s a ringing in my ears and my hands are still gripping her hips and I’m slowly becoming aware that I just came in my pants from dry humping.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I manage.
“Did you?—”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my GOD!”
