“So Daryl was the lucky guy?”
“It was kind of wild. I sat down next to him, and he grabbed my face and kissed me! No hello. No, aren’t we in math class? Just kissed me!”
“That sounds like a red flag.”
“I mean, sure, I guess. But we were like, what, thirteen? Anyway, I thought it would be just one, but we ended up kissing the entire way back.”
“Not bad then, our friend Daryl. You liked it?”
“It was okay.” Her gaze snaps to mine. “I’ve been kissed by seven people.”
“Seven. Since you were thirteen?”
“Yup, that’s basically one every two years.”
“And when was the last one?” I don’t know that I want to know, but it keeps her here in my arms.
She blows out a long rush of peach-scented breath. “I don’t know. A year, probably. Just some guy I went out with twice.” Her happy bubble deflates, and she tries to pull away.
So, her self confidence until now has been tied to how men react to her. That’s clear.
I don’t let her go. “You are way more than what any man thinks of you.”
Her eyes stare into mine. “I know that. I mean, I know that in my head. But it doesn’t seem to matter what I force myself to think. Something about me puts them off when it comes time to get close.” She frowns. “I think I’m too freaky. I do weird stuff.”
“Like what?”
She pushes on my chest. “I don’t know. I wiggle. I make weird noises. Maybe I’m supposed to be more demure, or silent or something.”
“I don’t think you could do anything wrong.” And I mean it. I don’t like her talking bad about herself.
She pushes again. “You haven’t tried anything with me. I’ve been too weird. I flashed your bar. I flashed you when we were alone! I talk too much. I’m too skinny?—”
That’s enough. I silence her with my mouth on hers. She goes still for a moment, like she’s shocked I did it. But I don’t pull away.
I taste her, sucking on her lips, slipping my tongue inside. She opens for me, letting me do what I want, clutching my shoulders like I might try to get away.
I drag her even closer, deepening the kiss, pressing my hand against the back of her head. She tastes of fruit juice and schnapps, Sex on the Beach, fun and sweet.
Her hips press into mine, and I know when she feels me hard against her belly. She presses against it, and a low, keening whine comes from her throat.
Is this the type of sound she means? Because I’m keyed into her like a honing signal. I shove her skirt higher so her legs can move and lift one of her thighs so I can grind against her body.
The long, high pitch returns, a sound of need and desire. I work hard not to heed the call of it, remembering this isn’t someone I can plow into against the wall. She’s new to this, and protected, and there are rules surrounding everything about her.
But I clasp her ass and press her against me. I won’t do anything I shouldn’t. No fingers. No penetration. But I will work her however she needs, to whatever capacity is safe.
She gasps against my mouth, her hips moving with me. She’s caught by what is happening, the friction against her. The skirt shifts up and out of the way. She lets me move her in those thin panties, hard over the bulge in my jeans, the roughness of the denim, a terrain that is working for her.
Her hands claw at me as she sucks in breath after breath. “Merrick!” she cries. “Oh, my God!” She moves with me, going faster, and I match that pace. I listen to every sound, feeling out what she likes, adjusting.
She’s wet, that’s for sure, as I can feel the dampness seeping through my jeans. She shifts forward and back, her eyes closed, her body undulating as she rubs against my crotch.
Then the high cry comes out. Her fingers dig into my arms. She shudders against me, gasping for air.
The keening cry goes higher, turning jagged, stuttering as her shoulders shake.
I hold on, drawing it out, letting her hang on as long as possible, holding back a smile as I watch her chest and neck blossom pink from the orgasm.
