Four little words. I know the implication and the weight of what I am saying, and I mean them. Regardless of the champagne and the adrenaline rush from everything that just happened, I mean these words. I know exactly what I’m saying to him.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his hands on my thighs, his lips close enough to mine that if I want to, I could lean in and kiss him again without even trying.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“I just don’t want you to feel like you were pressured into anything. I have no problem waiting for this. Waiting for you,” he says softly, as he plays with a lock of my hair.
Crazily enough, I know he means it. What’s even crazier is it makes me want it even more.
“It’s not a spur-of-the-moment decision, Ash. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I want this, and I want you,” I tell him.
He searches me for a moment longer, but only a moment. After that, he kisses me, letting it go deeper. Deep enough that Ican feel it in my soul, warming me to my bones and making me shudder.
I pull him against me, scooting backwards in an attempt to lie down. But Asher stops and shakes his head.
“No. Not here,” he says, standing up and holding out a hand.
“What’s wrong with the couch?” I ask.
“Your first time shouldn’t be on the couch.”
“Oh, okay.” I take his hand.
I didn’t know it mattered. Darlene lost her virginity behind a liquor store when we were seventeen. My friend Abbey, a girl that used to work at Silver Spoons with me, said she lost hers in a church parking lot. I figured it was just something that could happen anywhere, and it didn’t matter as long as it was with the right person. Thinking about it now, I doubt either of them lost their virginity to the right person.
Maybe it does matter.
We go into my room, and my veins are buzzing with anticipation. As I watch Ash turn down the bed and switch on a lamp, I realize that it matters very much.
This man seems to know that.
Ash turns to me, and I stand in front of him. I am so anxious; I’m shaking. But he takes my hands in his, and kisses them both. He holds them to his chest and kisses me. It’s soft and gentle at first, then slowly deepens. It conjures up a slow murmur from me, and I pull my hands from his so I can lace my arms around his neck.
Ash is taller than me by quite a bit, and he picks me up. I wrap my legs around him as we continue to kiss. With our mouths locked, he lays me on the bed and slowly crawls on top of me.
My hands begin to wander, raking over his torso, feeling his muscles with my fingertips and palms. All the while thinking about the way he looks without his shirt on. He was shirtlessmost of the time in Costa Rica, and I remember in detail the shape of his abs, the hardness of his biceps, and the V below his navel that tapered off into his shorts.
Asher is rock hard right now. I can feel him brushing against me through the lace and tulle of my dress.
As if he can read my thoughts, Ash sits up. His eyes intensely locked on mine while he pulls his shirt up over the top of his head. I come to my feet, reaching behind to unzip my dress. While still looking at him, I let it fall to the ground.
He shoves his pants down, and they puddle at his feet.
I unlatch my bra and take it off.
He slips out of his boxer briefs and tosses them aside.
I shimmy out of my panties and step out of them.
His eyes trail down my body, and I swear I can almost feel the touch. I am fully aware that this is a very Notebook moment. It’s not the exact same circumstances, but it is my first time. So I think the poetry of it is excusable, if not necessary.
“Jesus, Harper,” he says, his voice gravelly.
“What?” I ask, and my arms instinctively cross over my body.
“No. Don’t cover up. Never cover up. You’re stunning,” he says.
I take a step backward and lie back on the bed. Asher walks towards me, taking me in again for a long moment. He is in no hurry. He crawls onto the bed, hovering over me just enough that his skin brushes mine. Then he kisses me on the mouth, then my forehead, my cheeks, my neck, my collarbones, the swell of my breasts.
