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My skin goose bumps, my nipples pebble. It’s not always like this with him. I can sit next to him on his bench seat in the Bronco, bounce along on shocks that are too old, grab a hot drink before a group session, or sit next to him at dinner and I am fine. I can be normal. But right now, at the end of the night, I don’t want to leave. I don’t think I can. Not without feeling his heart beating out of his chest, against mine, or hearing the way his breath catches right before he comes. I’m addicted to those sounds, to the sight of him.
From somewhere in the house, Betty caterwauls long and loud and the sound breaks the tension between us, Jesse’s shoulders shaking as I laugh. He steps forward, his arms open, and I fall into him, my arms around his waist. He smells different tonight, warmer. His arms wrap around me, his thumb brushing my bare shoulder blades, his fingers drifting under the thin strap of my halter top.
“You look pretty,” he says. I feel his voice as much as I hear it.
“Brooke said you’re wearing the shit out of this shirt.” I pluck at the fabric clinging to his back.
His stomach shakes against mine. “Yeah?”
“You know what you look like,” I say. I keep my eyes closed, smile against his chest.
“Yeah?” he says again, and I can hear the smile in his own voice, how it changes the cadence of his words, lightens his tone. He snaps the strap on my halter top.
I bite his pec in retaliation, gentle enough. He grunts and the hug never ends, it just changes. His hands migrate up and down my bare back, our hips press against each other and retreat. His breath is hot in my ear, his thigh thick between my legs. He walks me backward until I’m pressed between him and the counter, shifting so that I’m centered on his thigh, my mid-length skirt hitched up almost to my hips. His hands drop to my waist and he moves me back and forth. I leverage myself up on the counter so I can move with him, my tits pushed out, my legs wide.
“This what you wanted?” he asks.
And yes, I wanted to feel this, my pleasure and his, but alsothis, the way he looks at me, at us. The way his cheeks flush from arousal, the low rumble of his voice when he says “that’s it,” and “keep going, baby.”
“What about you?” I ask, breathless as I roll my hips against him.
He blows against my chest, cooling my sweat. “Don’t worry,” he says. “After.” He rubs the back of his fingers against my breast, sending shock waves through my nipple that border on painful, and I grind down harder on his leg. He hitches me up, but the friction isn’t enough. I can’t come just from this.
“Can you...?” I ask, pulling my top up and holding my breast like I’m offering it to him.
His rhythm stutters. “What are you asking?”
I whine and blush, embarrassed at having to say it out loud. “I need you to suck me,” I whisper.
“Are you sure?” he asks but his hands are already moving up my ribs; he cups my breasts. “What about...?”
“Please.” I lean back over the counter, my back arching to give him better access to more of my skin. And that’s all it takes to convince him, of what is arguably a bad idea. His mouth is hot, his hair soft under my hand as I guide him over me.
I must look indecent with my tits out and my skirt hiked up my thighs, my back bent at angles only previously achieved by romance novel cover models, grinding against his thigh like I can burn off the rest of our clothes through friction. I am frantic and feral and I do feel wild, for him, to come, but I know I don’t have to chase down my pleasure. The gentle strokes of his tongue against my nipple, the steady shift of his thigh between my legs, the way his hands squeeze me, I know I don’t have to take my pleasure from him. He’ll give it all to me. Of course he will. He’s Jesse, my friend, my Jesse. He’s the safest man I know.
I take his head in my hands, stroke the soft lobes of his ears. “Look at me,” I whisper.
His eyes are hazy, glassy with lust; his lips are wet and so are my pebbled nipples as I roll my hip against him, as he guides me with his hands, as my clit pulses, as my back cramps and I squeeze him between my legs, as I come. He watches me the whole way through, helping me wring all of my pleasure out. I collapse back against the counter, my feet off the floor, body pinned between him and the linoleum. My panties are soaked, my come painting my labia and inner thighs. Every muscle in my body is liquid and Jesse is gentle with me when he gathers me in his arms and turns me around, bending me over the counter, my face pressed to the cool tiles. The sound of his zipper surprises me and I tense but Jesse goes still, putting a gentle hand on my back. “I’m keeping my underwear on,” he says. “OK?”
“OK.”
The shape of his cock is hard as it presses against the curves of my ass; his movements are short and shaky, his breath coming in harsh gasps, and then he goes rigid, his cock pulsing between my cheeks. I close my eyes, letting the low golden light in the room press at my eyelids. My face is cold against the counter, his front warm against my back. I’m slick and exhausted so when Jesse groans and pulls me down to the floor, our legs tangled together, I let him.
“Sorry,” he says, breathless. “I should have asked you first if that was OK?” he says, like he’s asking now.
“You checked in,” I say. “I liked it.”
When he sighs, his chest lifts me with him. “Will you tell me now?” he asks, his fingers in the ends of my hair. “If there’s anything you like or don’t like or don’t want?”
I open my mouth but for a moment, I am just like Jesse, and I’m silent. There is something I don’t like. Of course, it comes up today, when my nerves from my first therapy session are still fresh. It’s probably a conversation we should have, not just as two people who have sex together but as friends. If there was someone to tell, it would be Jesse. It’s just that it always sucks to say it. There’s no eloquent way. It just sucks. My chest shakes as I take a deep breath.
“I had a boyfriend in freshman year. He lived off campus.”
My teeth start to chatter and goose bumps form along my arms, suddenly cold, always my inevitable reaction when I talk about Greg; like my body remembers, will always remember.
“He was...” I pause. Often I try to find ways to explain Greg and his behavior to other people, when the only explanation is that he wasn’t a good person. “Greg and I were fooling around in my dorm room. I said no and he didn’t listen.”
Jesse is silent and still for a moment, then he turns me on his lap, leans forward to see my eyes. He doesn’t say anything, the only sound is the dishwasher and my chattering teeth. “I don’t like to be held down,” I say matter-of-factly. “So, if you could not do that.”
