I have to admit I am different with Banner because she’s different. I’m not great boyfriend material. Just ask Cindy. I’m not very attentive, but when I’m with Banner, it’s hard to focus on anything else. I lose interest quickly, but I find myself thinking about things Banner said, about her opinions, days later. She fascinates me without even really trying. I want to know her as intimately as possible.
Her beautiful same-size lips settle into an immovable line. We stand here like she’s waiting for my decision, but she holds all the power. The ball is still in her court because she’s willing to walk away from this, to go back to our books and act like this never happened, but I’m not. I’ve had sex with a lot of girls. The most gorgeous girls on campus and beyond, but I’ve never had Banner, and right now I want her more than everything. More than all the Cindy’s combined. Important rule of negotiation. Know what you’re willing to give up before you start. One thing I know for sure: I’m not willing to give up on this.
I stretch my arm toward the wall and turn out the lights.
With the light snuffed out, my other senses rise, hunting for her in the dark. The smell of her hair and her quick, shallow breaths. My sight adjusts until the heavy black curtain completely obscuring her fades to gray. Light from the outer room spills under the door, revealing just the shape, the outline of her, but still camouflaging details. I cup her cheek, taking a moment to appreciate the softness of her skin, the silky hair brushing my knuckles. I’m not an idiot. She wants the lights out because she’s self-conscious, but from my perspective, she has nothing to be ashamed of.
“I think you’re beautiful, Ban.”
“You do?” she asks, her voice hushed.
My words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise her, because I don’t say shit like that to girls. The prettiest ones usually seem to already know, which makes any admiration I’d express redundant. But Banner . . . she’s so beautiful, and I’m not sure she knows.
“I do.” I push the hair away from her face.
“Uh . . . thank you.” Her laugh isn’t much more than a breath. “The lights are out, so I’m not sure that compliment counts.”
“I know your face by heart. You have seven freckles here.” I swipe a finger over the straight bridge of her nose and drift down to caress her full lips and the tiny dent in her cheek her smile displays. “And a dimple right here.”
I explore the smooth skin of her nape, under a heavy fall of hair.
“Now I want to know your body, too,” I say softly. “Take off your clothes for me, Banner.”
After a sharply indrawn breath, she raises her arms. The rustle of her clothes—the sweatshirt, jeans, socks, shoes—being discarded whisper in the dark. I approximate her by touch, reaching for her arms and closing my fingers around the softness, the velvety skin. I lower my head and run my nose along her neck, discovering.
“You always smell so good.” I’ve wanted to tell her that since the first night we studied here.
“Pretty Pastel,” she replies, her laugh low, nervous.
“What?” I pause.
“The smell. It’s my dryer sheets. The scent is Pretty Pastel.”
“I like it.” I resume my exploration, running a palm over her shoulder, her collarbone until I find the soft, full weight of her breasts, testing them in my hands, cupping them, holding them, brushing the nipples with my thumbs until they pebble and her breaths come harshly.
“You like that?” I ask.
I see her head nod in the semi-darkness. “Yeah. It feels good.”
Her touch startles me in the best way, her hand finding my face, traveling over my mouth, eyes, and hair. I sense her approach, feel tiny pants of breath on my lips, and anticipation has me panting, too, shortens my breath and sharpens my senses. Her mouth seeks mine, eager and sweet when she kisses me. Her pleasure, her excitement matches, answers, fans mine.
I guide her back down to the couch, and with a hand at her shoulder, urge her to stretch out. I’d shave points off my GPA for a glimpse of her, but she doesn’t want that. I get it, so I settle for a taste.
At first I just rub my lips over her nipples, back and forth until they tighten and lift under my mouth, and then I wrap my lips around the tip, stretch open to encompass the full swell. Suck, lick, rub. Suck, lick, rub. Suck, lick, rub. I set a sensual rhythm that incites us both.
“Oh.” Every sound she makes is a mating call.
I walk my hands down her sides, over her waist, and roll the pads of my fingers through the short hairs sheltering her pussy. I find the nub crowning her slit and caress it, varying the pace from swift and urgent to agonizingly slow. Her restraint, her tenuous control is palpable, and I want to shatter it. I scoot to the other end of the couch and carefully slide one of her legs off the cushion, cracking her open. I fit my shoulders between her thighs and lower my head. For a moment, I just blow over her wet flesh, and while I’m breathing out, I’m breathing her in.
Sometimes a dish carries a scent so rich you taste it before it hits your tongue. Your olfactory sense preludes your taste buds. That’s Banner’s pussy, so sweet and musky it’s as much flavor as scent, and I taste her before even taking my first bite, my first sip. Before my tongue swipes through the soaked silky folds. I spread her, and for a few seconds content myself by simply rubbing my lips between hers, gathering her wetness and licking it away.
“Hěn hào chī,” I say softly, a wicked grin she can’t see to appreciate stamped on my face.
Very delicious.
“Oh my God.” A laugh swallows her gasp. Her knees jerk against my head, but I press them open wider, determined that she may have denied me sight, but I’ll taste; I’ll eat as much as I want. I feast between her legs, sloppily, roughly, famished. My face is wet, and my tongue aches by the time I’m done. She’s making these little sobbing sounds that have me so close to spilling all over her belly. Her hands rifle through my hair, scraping my scalp while she grinds her pussy in my face.
“Chinga,” she whispers.
“What’d you say?” I demand, lifting my head.
A silence follows before she answers.
“Nothing,” she replies hastily. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s Spanish?” I persist. “What does it mean?”
“Jared,” she groans. “Don’t.”