“So, wait, does that mean you’re a virgin?”I wince at the bluntness of the question, but he doesn’t seem to care.He just shrugs.
“I guess that depends on your definition of sex.In the broadest sense, no, since I’ve given someone a hand job.But he didn’t reciprocate, so it feels like I still am.”
“He didn’t reciprocate?”I know that’s not the important part of that statement, but it’s the one my brain gets stuck on.What kind of person lets someone get them off but doesn’t want to return the favor?
“He offered,” Reid says, which simmers my indignation at least.“But I said no.I don’t know; it was complicated.”
I search his face for any hint of what he may be feeling, but he’s not quite looking at me anymore, so I can’t read him.“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say gently.
“No, we can,” he says.“We should because it’s important to be open and honest, especially about sex.Just—” He lets out a frustrated huff.“Would it be okay if I don’t look at you while we talk?”
“Of course.”
He sighs, relieved, then scoots down so he can tuck his face into my neck.My fingers weave into his hair on instinct, and finally I give in to the desire I’ve had for weeks and kiss the top of his head.
He hums and presses a kiss to my neck, then explains.“I didn’t understand it at the time, but I didn’t really want him to touch me after.He wasn’t pushy or anything.He was nice.But looking back, I think I was overwhelmed by the whole encounter.We were at a party at his house and had snuck away to his room.So I was overstimulated because of the party.I also think I wasn’t ready for that step.I thought I was, but I think it was more that I wanted to know what everyone was talking about.It felt like everyone in school was talking about sex, and I was the odd person out for not having any experience, so I felt like…”
“You felt like you were supposed to?”I supply.
“Yeah.”
“That makes sense,” I say.
“It does?”
“I’m pretty sure peer pressure around sex is a relatively universal teenage experience.You aren’t the first person I’ve heard say they tried things before they were ready because they felt like everyone else was already doing it.”I kiss his hair again, then place a finger under his chin to tilt his head up so I can kiss his forehead.“I am glad you told me, though.Now that I know, I can make sure things are different—you know, when you’re ready.”
“Things are already different.”He tilts his head further back to kiss my chin, then props up on his elbow again.“I want you.I want to kiss you and touch you.I want you to kiss and touch me, and I know if I happen to get overwhelmed, you’ll take care of me because you always do.I’m ready if you are.”
“I want you, too,” I whisper.“I want all of that.”
“Does that mean now?”he asks.
My lingering anxiety dissipates, replaced by arousal as he stares at my lips.“Yes.”
His eyes flick up to mine, as if doing one last check for any hesitation.I smile and lift my head to brush a soft kiss on his lips.I intended for it to be a quick kiss, something to lighten the mood after our talk before moving things to one of our rooms.But he hums and presses closer, his hand coming to cradle my jaw.With a sigh, I close my eyes, content to lose myself in the kiss for a few moments longer, when suddenly his lips disappear from mine.Then, the weight of his body is also gone.I open my eyes again just in time for him to grab my hand and yank me to my feet.
I stumble into him, laughing a little, but he quickly steadies me with a hand on my hip.“Sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly at me.
I shake my head, dismissing the apology, before dipping down to kiss him.He responds in earnest, his arms coming to loop around my neck.After a long moment, I pull back to mumble against his lips.“Your room or mine?”
Chapter 8
Reid
Song: Butterflies by Kacey Musgraves
Althoughmakingittomy bedroom would probably be easier and faster if we stopped kissing, I can’t bring myself to pull away from him long enough to do that.It’s been years since I’ve kissed anyone, but I can’t remember ever feeling so free while kissing someone.I’m not worried about every little move, sound, or expression I make.I’m letting myself simply be here, be with him.It’s intoxicating.
We bump into practically every surface in our apartment as we move from the couch to my bed.I won’t be at all surprised if I wake up in the morning with bruised shins, but I don’t care.Parker doesn’t seem to either.Every time we knock into something, he just laughs into my mouth and keeps kissing me.It’s fun.I never thought being intimate with someone could be fun.I always thought of sex as something vulnerable, not something you can laugh during and have that be a good thing.But every time he laughs, I feel a surge of pleasant warmth.I love his laugh.I love being the one to make him laugh.
We make it to my door, and I push him into the room playfully, just to hear that laugh again.He gropes for my sweater and tugs me in after him, stopping when the backs of his knees hit the bed.His hands land on my hips, pulling me in, and I loop my arms around his neck like it’s a reflex.Our lips meet briefly, then he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine.
“So, um, how do we do this?”he asks, his timidness returning.“Or I guess, how do you want to do this?”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” I say.
“It’s your first time, so whatever you’re comfortable with,” he says.
