I grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him into the house.
“You and homework,” I said, planting my lips on his. “Such a nerd,” I said against his mouth.
He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me harder. And then he pushed me against the door we’d just closed, trailing his mouth down my cheek to my neck. I cried out when I felt his teeth on my skin.
“Too much?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Wanna see my bedroom?”
“Yes,” Ryan said into my neck, and when he pulled away, I took a long, satisfying gulp of air. I had to remember to breathe around him.
I took his hand and led him up the stairs. I had no intention of having sex. I was sure he’d tell me we weren’t ready, and I was surprisingly content with that. I forgot how satisfying kissing could be, though I must admit that when he touched me the other day, it ignited a dangerous desire for sex. Rough sex. I wondered what Gretchen and psychologists would say about that.
I opened the door to my room.
“Oh my God,” Ryan said, walking in dazed. He scanned the entire space from floor to ceiling, then turned in my direction.
I smirked. “Like it?”
“Are you eighteen?” he asked. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those child geniuses who skipped a bunch of grades, and you only look older than you actually are.”
I sauntered over to him and snaked my arms around his waist.
“I’m twelve,” I said, then kissed his neck. “Is that okay?”
“Not funny, Brooke. Disturbing more like. What the hell kind of room is this?”
I laughed and walked to the bed. “My dad, okay? He decorated my room for me before I moved in. I didn’t have the heart to change it. Plus, it’s kind of growing on me now.”
Ryan sighed relief then furrowed his brows. “He doesn’t know you’re eighteen?”
I shook my head and smiled. “He’s my dad. He doesn’t know what 18-year-old girls like. The last time I lived with him, my room did look like this. He’s stuck in the past, I guess.”
Ryan sat down beside me on the bed.
“This purple cheetah print comforter sure does make a statement,” he said, running his hand over the bed.
“My favorites are the matching throw pillows,” I replied.
“Oh, yes. Matching throw pillows,” he observed.
We looked at each other for a moment.
“Oh, just throw me into the throw pillows already!” I cried, and Ryan laughed, pushing me onto the bed and kissing me roughly.
“I wanna make out so hard,” I said into his mouth. As usual, I didn’t think before I spoke. I never did around Ryan and thought that was okay. He seemed to enjoy it, and I couldn’t help myself anyway. He buried his face into my neck, laughing.
“What?” I asked. “Kiss me again.”
“Oh, Brooke,” Ryan said. “I plan on kissing you all afternoon.”
I liked the sound of that and didn’t protest when I felt his hand slip up the front of my shirt to cup my breast. And then my shirt was off altogether along with my bra. There was nothing practiced about it, and I liked it. Ryan stared at my nakedness as though studying me. I thought he was burning the image into his brain.
“I plan on kissing you here,” he said, and kissed me lightly on my lips. “And here.” He planted a soft kiss on my cheek. “And here.” He nibbled my earlobe. “And here.” He kissed my neck. “And here.” He kissed me in between my breasts. “And here.” He kissed the curve of my breast.
“And here.”
He fastened on to my nipple, and I moaned. Actually, I had been moaning the whole time, but it came out deeper and fuller when he drew my nipple into his mouth. I arched my body up to his lips inviting him to kiss me and suck me harder. He wouldn’t, though. He kept up his gentle assault until I was begging him to make love to me.
“No, Brooklyn,” he said. “We’re not ready.”
“The hell we aren’t!” I cried, and pushed him off of me on to his back. I sat on top of him, straddling his hips. He drew in his breath, eyes glued to my breasts.
“What are you trying to do to me?” he asked.
“I’m trying to get you to have sex with me,” I replied. “And it’s clear you want to,” I said, moving my hips from side to side on him.
He grunted. “You were more than happy to wait before.”
“Yeah. That’s before you took my top off and played with my breasts!”
Ryan laughed.
“I want to . . .” But I couldn’t say it out loud. I felt my face blush a deep crimson.
“You want to what?”
“It’s just that you’ve done things to me,” I said. “And I thought maybe I should—”
“What? You think everything’s supposed to be even?” Ryan asked.
I shook my head. “No, I just mean that I want to do stuff to you. Not because I think I’m supposed to but because I want to.”
He studied my pink face, like he was making up his mind about something. Then he shook his head.
“You’re not ready, Brooklyn,” he said.
“What?”