My stomach is at my fucking ankles because I’m selfish, just like Pops. All my brain keeps telling me is to take a bigger dose of her even if it’s a dangerous thing to do because version one of my little lady is curious, and I always give my little lady what she wants.
“I know you don’t actually think we fucking.” I swallow. “You trying to control the vibe again like I didn’t explain this to you already. Why you can’t ever act right for me?”
Her stomach jumps and mine follows because we both know the type of things those words wake up—dilated pupils, bruised asses, and sloppy first kisses.
I drop the remote back on my dresser and walk toward the bed. She pulls her legs from underneath her and spreads them open like she did that morning after Splashtown because she’s so damn perfect.
“You don’t wanna make love to me?” I mutter, gripping her thighs and pulling her into my bare stomach. “Guess you really don’t want to come home to a nigga no more.”
It’s just mind games and word play I would dole out to experienced women because I’m still full of 1942 even after her attempts to flush it out of my system with water, cake, and childish games. Even if I wasn’t full of it, we’d still be in the same situation because I’ve been fucking up ever since that night in her driveway.
“Shut up,” she mumbles, pressing her lips to my stomach and dropping wet, sticky chocolate kisses along LA. “Stop playing with me.”
There’s something worse happening in her head and God, I know Mom promised you I’d be careful with her, but my baby is hardheaded.
She pushes back and pulls her tank top over her head like she’s an experienced woman, but I feel her trembling legs against mine. I have her head fucked up with credit cards, kissing, and the endless attention she deserves. It’s so bad that hives prickle her soft skin again.
When she reaches for the waistband of her leggings, I reach out to yank her hand back. “Stop...”
“Nuh uh.” She shakes her head. “I—I can take it. I trust you.”
She says those last few words as clearly as when she told me I could have whatever I wanted and that’s the problem.
I squat in front of her. “Listen... I know you have all these intelligent,hellaprogressive thoughts about your virginity bu—but are you sure you want to do this? With me?”
The questions I’m blurting out are supposed to cure the guilt eating at my liquored up conscious.
“Look at your stomach,” I mutter, dragging my fingers across the new welts.
“So. Take care of ‘em like you did the other ones.” She smacks her hand on top of mine. “They’re yours. They’re yo—your fault, so take care of them.”
I try to remember how we went from metaphorical expressions to make it easier for her to ask for me to her outright demanding my dick, but then I remember all the shit the last days of summer took us through. It’s no wonder we’re here. She wasn’t careful of what she did for unworthy men like me that just... asked.
“Okay,” I choke out. “I’ll do that.”
Her chest jumps up and down with adrenaline filled gasps while I hook my fingers through her leggings’ waistband. When I pull them down to her ankles, I swallow the rolling waves in my stomach because I already know how this will go.
Having sex for the first time isn’t the glamorous shit all the sex-positive girls she follows on Twitter gloat about. It’s painful, bloody, and when I peel her new lacy thong down her legs, I remember how horrible of a time it’s going to be for her because she could barely take those two fingers she keeps obsessing over.
“Can you spread your legs again for me?”
“Uh, huh.” She gasps, kicking the rest of the fabric on the floor and spreading her legs so far apart that I see the glistening wet dots hanging onto the curly hairs of her pussy.
It’s mine, and she knows it because I see the careful planning that went into this moment—the shaved bikini line, the request for me to add another finger to prep herself for when she got the courage to tell me to take it, the new panties. It’sdefinitelymine.
“I think we need to talk,” I mutter, blowing against the hood of her clit that pokes out.
Her back thrashes against the bed. “Ason, don’t fucking start—”
“Watch your mouth.” I sigh, pressing my tongue against it and slurping it into my mouth with the rest of the shit she wanted to say.
It’s crazy that both of us think we can have a civilized conversation with my pussy propped in front of me like this. The loud, painful squeal she lets out while I suck makes this battle in my head a lot less fucked up.
“Aso—”
“Tell me something good—right now,” I garble out, swiping my tongue along the delicate folds and chasing her wetness. “Make me feel less fucked up for always giving you whatever you want, even shit I shouldn’t. Tell me I’m wrong for packing my shit and moving into your ass. Tell me I’m wrong for finding home in you, baby.”
“I can’t.” She gasps. “I fucking can’t, Ason. I just want you inside of me. Jus-just let me have that.”
