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“But your parents,” Rushmore protests.
“My parents take sleeping pills. Come over. No amount of flowers can make up for not being able to touch you,” I say.
I hear his breath catch through the phone.
“Come on. I’m a teenager. I’ve been a good girl my whole life. Let me have some classic teenage fun by sneaking my boyfriend into my room.”
His low, gravelly tone is such a tell. “I’ll be right there.”
I sprawl over my new down designer comforter, stroking its luxurious, cool material with my freshly shaved legs. I feel delicious, having just taken a bath with ridiculously expensive bubbles that felt like silk. I sigh and stare at my bedroom window for what feels like an eternity.
Finally, at about 12:30 a.m., he appears.
I lift up the sash and he looks somehow put upon.
“If your parents are on sleeping pills, I don’t see why I have to sneak in through a window. Can I not use the front door?”
The sight of him is so thrilling after weeks of seeing nobody but high school boys and teachers that I don’t even care he’s giving me a scowl.
“It’s all part of the drama. Get in here,” I whisper.
“Wait, you’re right,” he says.
“About what?”
“I never got to do this as a kid. Sneak into a girl’s room. Let me just stand out here and look at you like this.”
I cut my eyes away because his words make me feel bashful.
“Hey,” Rushmore says, lifting my chin. “Look me in the eye, Precious. Queens don’t bow to anyone.”
I grin. “It’s not a confidence problem. I have that in spades. I’m just overwhelmed by these feelings.”
Rushmore’s eyes darken. “You have no idea how good it is for me to hear that. I think about you constantly, wondering what you’re thinking. I have never felt this for anyone in my life.”
“Not even your ex-wife, at one time?”
“Let’s not talk about that right now. It’s such a beautiful night. You look stunning in the moonlight, and if I were an artist I would sculpt you.”
“I don't want to be made of stone and put in a museum. I want to be kissed and touched. By you.”
“Well, I did tell you to name what you wanted.”
“I want you in my bed.”
Rushmore cradles my face briefly before lacing his fingers in my hair, stroking his fingers down my neck and across my collarbones. Finally, he lets his hand rest on my breastbone, over my pink llama pajamas. I’m certain he can feel how aggressively my heart thuds.
Without removing his hand that covers my heart, Rushmore connects our lips in a gentle kiss. His full, powerful lips suction against mine. He punctuates it with soft swipes that cause my stomach to quake with delight. He kisses my top lip, then my bottom lip, then covers my mouth with his. Rushmore kisses more playfully than I would have expected. Controlled playfulness. His mouth teases me and pauses to let me reciprocate in kind. It’s as if he never stops negotiating.
“May I kiss you with tongue?”
I gasp at how sweet he’s being. It’s so unexpected.
I nod but add, “Yes, if you come to my bed.”
He vaults inside and suddenly he’s standing before me, looking like an oversized superhero in my suburban teenage bedroom that must look alien to him.
He looks over at the basic twin bed covered with stuffed Care Bears.
