“That skank who’s your best friend?”
His arm has relaxed now; in fact, his whole body has.
“I don’t know why I’m friends with her.”
He moves his arm from mine and slides it round my shoulder, straightening his legs. He’s wearing thin sweats that cling to muscles I’ve never seen so defined. Ben is nothing like the boy who pulled my hair four years ago. He’s nearly nineteen now, his first year at university completed and he’s back with his father for the summer.
He’s not a boy any more.
“Because she makes you feel normal.” He pulls me closer to him and I feel his heat.
My stomach flip flops over and I wonder if he’ll ever kiss me. I’ve been kissed before: dark rooms where there have been dares, kisses with boys who will have titles one day because their fathers are dukes and viscounts and lords, but never wanted any of them to kiss me like I want Ben.
And I shouldn’t want Ben, because he’s my friend and he’s older. My mother taught me that older boys expected more, that they wouldn’t just be content with holding hands and taking a kiss, but then neither were boys my own age and I was a prize.
“I’m not sure Elise makes anyone feel normal.”
“She treats you normally.”
“She’s trying to sleep with my brother.” I roll my eyes and fight the bile that burns. Lennox doesn’t have the same rules as me. Girls won’t kiss and tell because they want more and if they do, he won’t be back. He charms them, and they fall in love with the boy who will one day be a king but he doesn’t need to charm Elise. She’s been under his spell since she was twelve, or has he been under hers?
“She’s breaking the girl-code then.” He’s amused, I can tell by the lilt of his voice.
“I’ll break her face if she hurts him.”
Now Ben laughs. “What if he hurts her.”
“I’ll electrocute his penis.”
He laughs again and pulls me closer to him, wrapping his other arm around me. I’m conscious of the curves I don’t have, although there are more than I had at Easter when I last saw him.
“I should defend your brother from threats like that.”
“No,” I speak into his chest, the soft fabric of his T-shirt against my face. I like being this close to him. “You’re meant to defend me.”
His fingers trail up my back, over my bra strap where they stop.
“Always. I’ll always defend you.”
I shift, move and look up at him, stare into blue eyes. Neither of us say anything because we’re both frozen. I hear my heart thudding in my ears and I wonder if his is the same or whether it’s just me, being young and foolish.
My lips part. They’re inches from his and I’m wondering how they’ll feel against his. My kisses have been limited, nothing more than stolen moments with boys I've known for years, boys who are safe and fumbling and children.
Not like Ben.
I’m scared because we’ve never been like this before, not with this haze of something almost tangible sitting between us.
I take the plunge and bring my lips to his. A simple kiss, soft, slow. Gentle. He doesn’t move away or move me away, instead his hands slip to my waist and he holds me.
It’s me who moves back, ending it. I look into his eyes, needing to read them and see dilated black pools of pupils and a fierceness I’ve seen before but never understood. One of his hands leaves my waist and travels to my hair at the back of my neck, threading his fingers through it.
Then he pulls me to him and kisses me. This time it’s not so soft or simple. This time it’s more, demanding and asking. His tongue parts my lips and this is nothing like the kisses I’ve had in hidden rooms. I feel an ache between my legs, feel wetness accumulating. My hands rest on his shoulders and I’m now straddling him, aware of how close the heat between my legs is to his sweatpants.
We stop kissing, breathe and then start again and I shift closer, feeling what I think is his hard-on against my stomach. Nothing scares me; I’m the girl who jumps into lakes from the top of cliffs and calls out the bitches at school when they go that bit too far. But this is out of my league and I’m scared I’ll do something wrong because this is Ben and he’s been my friend for so long.
He slows the kiss, his hands feeling up and down my sides, pausing at the side of my breasts as if he wants to touch but isn’t sure he should or can and I’m not sure either because no one’s done that before.
I realise I’m pressing my centre closer to him, needing pressure and friction. I’m no stranger to self-induced orgasms: I’ve read too many of my mother’s romances and caught sight of Lennox’s browsing history, but I’ve never felt this need.
