He’s thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and for a second, I just stare. I’ve seen plenty in porn but the reality of him, hot and heavy in my palm, is something else entirely.
Not that I have a frame of reference. But it feels like a lot.
“Show me.” I wrap my fingers around the base and his forehead drops to my shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Firm grip.” His voice is wrecked. Lower than I’ve heard it, stripped of his usual easy humor. “Don’t be careful with me.”
I stroke him, clumsy at first, too light, then too tight, reading his reactions like a language I’m learning in real time. When I twist my palm over the head, his breath catches, so I do it again. And again. Pre-cum slicks my fingers and the glide gets easier, and I start to find a rhythm that has his hips rocking into my fist.
I’m making this man shake apart under my hand. Me. The virgin who learned her grip strength thirty seconds ago.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing the spot below my ear, and his fingers start moving between my legs again. I whimper at the contact and my grip on him falters for a second.
He adds a second finger, and I cry out. The stretch borders on too much, and then he curls both against that devastating spot and it’s perfect.
We work each other in tandem, his fingers inside me, mine around him, and the living room fills with the wet, urgent sounds of it. Our breathing. His groans. My whimpers that I’ve stopped trying to muffle.
The cool breeze from the open door hits the sweat on my skin and I shiver, but I’m burning underneath it. My hips roll against his hand in a rhythm I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. The orgasm builds low in my belly, tightening like a fist.
“I’m close.” My voice breaks. “Johnny, I’m so close.”
“Come for me.” He presses harder, faster, his thumb relentless on my clit. “Let me feel it.”
It hits me nothing like what I’m used to.
Alone, I have to chase it. Build it brick by brick in the dark with my eyes squeezed shut and my breath held, working for it. This doesn’t make me work.
This takes.
My thighs lock around his hand. My fingers claw into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Every muscle I have fires at once and the sound that comes out of me isn’t pretty or performative, it’s raw and startled and louder than anything I’ve ever heard leave my own mouth.
I say his name. Or I try to. It comes out broken in the middle, half gasp and half sob, and I don’t care because his fingers are still moving and my body is still pulsing and I couldn’t stop any of it if I wanted to.
He strokes me through it, gentling as I pulse around him, and then thrusts into my fist twice more and comes with a guttural groan. Warmth spills across my stomach. He buries his face in my neck, his body trembling, and I hold him there with my free hand pressed against the back of his head while the aftershocks roll through both of us.
For a while, neither of us moves. The air from the open door has gone cold against my damp skin, but Johnny’s chest is warm under my cheek and his breathing is slowing against my hair, and that’s enough.
Eventually he lifts his head and glances down at the mess on my stomach. He huffs a laugh. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He eases off the couch, holding his pants with one hand, and disappears down the hall. Water runs. I lie there with my shirt off and my jeans bunched at my knees, sticky and flushed and grinning at the ceiling like an idiot.
I just did that. That was real.
Johnny comes back with a warm washcloth and kneels beside the couch. I clean up while he watches, pointing at a spot I missed on my hip.
“This is the part nobody prepares you for,” I say, shimmying my jeans back into place.
“What, you thought the movies just cut to black for no reason?”
I throw the washcloth at him, and he laughs as he disappears back into the bathroom.
When he comes back, I’ve got my shirt on and my legs tucked under me. He drops onto the couch beside me and pulls me into his side. My head finds the hollow below his shoulder, and his arm wraps around me, and for a while we just breathe.
The house is dark now. Neither of us gets up to turn on a light. Through the screen door, the ocean sounds closer than it did this morning. Louder. Like the tide shifted while we weren’t paying attention. I can hear his heartbeat through his chest, slower than mine, steadying.
There’s more I should tell him. About my future. About the man my father’s already promised me to. Things that could change the way he’s looking at me right now. But that’s tomorrow’s weight, and I’m not ready to pick it up yet.
“Hungry?” His lips press against the top of my head.
