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“Look at me. I become your boyfriend and turn into a complete idiot.” He’s grinning, reaching for me again, and this time, I don’t resist.
I let him pull me into his lap, readjusting me so I’m straddling him. I curl my hands around his broad shoulders, my knees slipping so they’re on either side of his hips and when he tilts his head back, I lean in, pressing my forehead to his.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks.
“You can tell me anything,” I whisper, my heart aching at the truth of my statement.
I just want this boy to confide in me, to tell me everything that he thinks. His hopes and dreams. His worries and fears. I want to know all of it. All of him.
“You’re my favorite person in the whole world,” he admits, his gaze locked on mine. “If I could spend every minute with you, I would.”
“You’re my favorite too,” I whisper, my throat aching with the admission. It feels like we’re talking in code. As if we don’t want to say the biggest, most meaningful word to each other.
Yet.
“You scared me this morning.” His fingers are tangled in my hair and a soft murmur of appreciation escapes me when he combs it out. “I was worried about you.”
“I was—numb. Like I felt nothing.” And I’m so tired. Emotionally worn out. I could probably fall asleep like this if he keeps stroking my hair…
“I bet I could make you feel something,” he says, like my words are a dare.
And when he kisses me, I forget all about sleep. All I can focus on is the needy press of his lips. The easy way his tongue slips into my mouth, sliding against mine. I kiss him back with everything I have, trying to show him how much I appreciate him. Care about him.
I wish I could say it. I wish I could tell him I’ve fallen in love with him, but it’s so hard. So scary.
His hands fall to my hips, holding me in place as he continues to kiss me. I can feel him in between my thighs, hard and throbbing already, and I can’t help myself. I rock against him, pressing against his erection and he groans.
We kiss and kiss, drowning in each other, his hands slipping beneath my sweatshirt, fingers pressing into my bare skin. Now that we’ve had sex, he doesn’t hold back like he used to. His touch is bold, his hands moving up until they’re undoing the clasp on my bra, his fingers seeking as he brushes them against my nipples. I can’t stop shivering and when he tugs on one nipple extra hard, I whimper against his lips, surprisingly enjoying the pain.
He finally tears his mouth from mine, his breathing ragged, his hands still on my breasts. “I’m not fucking you in my car, Daze.”
I’m breathing hard as well and it takes me a few seconds to speak. “Why not?”
Arch leans back against the headrest, his lids at half-mast as he studies me. “First, I don’t have a condom, and second, I have a perfectly good bed we can make use of. Like we did yesterday.”
“Maybe I want to do it in the car.” It’s so hot in here and when I quickly glance over my shoulder, I notice the windshield is fogged up. “I don’t want to go back to campus.”
He’s frowning, his hands cupping my breasts, his thumbs brushing back and forth across my nipples. “Someone could catch us.”
“They’ll catch us wherever we are.” I lean in and kiss him, my tongue searching his mouth this time around and his hips lift a little, his erection pressing against me. “Let’s do it here.”
“Daisy…”
“Please.” I reach between us, my fingers brushing against his erection. “You can pull out right before you come.”
“Holy shit. You can’t say things like that.” He sounds like he’s in complete agony and I can’t help the tiny thrill that pulses through me. Knowing that I’m the reason he sounds like this. Feels like this.
It’s all because of me.
I’m already undoing the front of his uniform trousers, grateful he’s not wearing a belt. Makes it far easier for me to access him and when I slip my hand inside, my fingers drifting across the front of his cotton boxer briefs, a soft, breathy sigh escapes me. He’s so hard and thick and perfect.
Knowing he’s my boyfriend makes me bolder too. Like I have every right to touch him. He’s not stopping me either. Not when I pull down the front of his boxer briefs and expose him, making him hiss out a breath. Not when I curl my fingers around his shaft and begin to stroke. I don’t recognize who I am in this moment or what I’m becoming, but I like her.
I like me.
“Daze, Daze, Daze.” He locks his fingers around my wrist, stopping me, and when I look up at him, I find he’s watching me with a serious expression on his face. “You gotta stop.”
“Why?” I’m confused. Doesn’t he like this?
