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Our hands begin to wander. Mine slide lower and lower, tracing every dip and valley. All he’s wearing is a pair of boxers. It’s easy to slip inside of them and grip his erection. My boldness surprises me, and I think it catches him off guard too.
Holden hisses when I grip his cock. “Fuck, Cassia.”
His breathing grows harsh and fast. Ragged, just like mine. I keep stroking, watching the pleasure play out on his face.
“We don’t have to do this.”
“Do you not want to?” I ask, worried he’s changed his mind.
He laughs, low and unamused. “Of course I want to.”
Holden rolls so he’s above me and kisses me again. He doesn’t seem in any hurry to skip to the sex. He kisses me like it’s the destination instead of the journey. Like it’s a privilege instead of an obligation.
It makes me think of his confession—that I was his first kiss.
He has all of my firsts.
At least I have one of his.
I close my eyes and kiss him back between ragged breaths. I let myself pretend this means something to him. ThatImean something to him.
Most of the time, I’m careful to keep a close grip on reality. It’s easier to avoid disappointment if you stick to what you know for sure. But I let myself drift, just for now. I pretend. I let my mind warp the situation into exactly what I want it to mean.
The longer we kiss, the more I experiment. I tug his bottom lip between my teeth. Suck on his tongue. Holden grinds his hips into mine.
“These fucking shorts.” His hand fists the fabric as his mouth moves to my neck. “Drive me fucking crazy.”
“Take them off.”
“So impatient.” His mouth travels lower, kissing a line across my collarbone. I arch against him, pressing our bodies as close together as possible. My body throbs, craving his attention.
There’s a hum in my blood, a thrill skipping across my skin. Anticipation floods my system like an addictive drug. We’re both breathing heavily, our mouths so close together the same air is being exchanged.
“Please,” I whisper. My heartbeat is an impatient thrum, eager to have him inside of me. To be connected, not just touching.
His hand runs up my thigh and between my legs, slipping beneath the strip of wet lace I’m wearing beneath my sleep shorts. I left my clothes in his bathroom the last time we hooked up, mostly because they were damp and smelled like chlorine, but also because I was wearing comfortable cotton briefs that didn’t add much to the moment.
I planned ahead tonight, knowing what was going to happen, wearing a pink thong that I bought at the mall last summer on a whim. This is the first time I’ve worn the lacy underwear with theintention of anyone else seeing them. Usually they’re pulled out on days I need an extra confidence boost or a lack of panty lines.
One of his fingers sinks inside me. I moan and he groans.
“You’re so wet.”
“Your fault,” I whisper.
His laugh is quiet. I feel it more than I hear it before he moves away and opens the drawer next to his bed. It’s filled with a random assortment of stuff: a composition notebook, a packet of tissues, some gum, and a box of condoms.
He sits up to tug down his boxers and rip open one of the foil packets. I bite my bottom lip as I watch him roll on the condom, warring with my riotous emotions.
Of course he has condoms in his bedroom. This moment that feels so special to me is ordinary for him.
The more I get lost in this, the more it will hurt when it ends.
I’m chasing pleasure that I know will turn to pain.
I shouldn’t have suggested this.
He shouldn’t have agreed.
