"Hey," I murmured. So much for my dirty talk. Hannah smiled and my brain melted.
We were silent as I picked up the pace. Hannah spread her legs and jutted her ass toward me. Her instincts were perfect; she did exactly what I needed. She didn't try to meet my thrusts with clumsy motions, she simply stood firm and let me beat into her from behind.
I was swelling or she was getting tighter, or both. The stimulation was exquisite.
Even as I neared climax and reached around to start rubbing Hannah's clit, we kept quiet. I think we were both straining to hear the sound: the squishing and slapping of our bodies coming together desperately. We had no shame in our pleasure. We were perfect partners.
Hannah's orgasm brought on mine. Her cunt squeezed and I exploded.
"Come inside me," she panted. "Oh god..."
I told her that I was coming. I told her to come on my dick. I almost told her I loved her.
Sex is the damndest thing.
CHAPTER 16
Hannah
_____
MATT STARTED TO cry after we had sex in my room.
This was a day of firsts.
A guy giving my mother flowers. A guy crying after sex with me.
I always thought if a guy cried after sex, I would forever see him as a milk toast. I'm not heartless; the idea just seems sappy.
That was before I met Matt. Matt crying, and trying to hide his tears, was the saddest sweetest thing I had seen in a long time. And it was deeply affecting. I felt my own eyes watering as he shuffled away and swiped his forearm across his face.
"Sorry, fuck." He fumbled with his shorts.
"Hey, come here."
Another first: not feeling hella awkward comforting someone. I had never been good at this kind of thing. With Matt, it came naturally. I went to him and pulled him into a warm hug. I stroked my fingers through his hair and rubbed his back.
"It was just a really intense orgasm," he mumbled.
Just a really intense orgasm? Matt wasn't sobbing, but I had seen the tears rolling down his cheeks. They weren't happy tears. He was sad, and he looked shaken.
Where did this grief come from?
"Matt, let me in," I said. "Let me into your life a little bit."
When we pulled apart, there was no trace of his tears except for the faintest redness to his eyes. He smiled and ruffled my hair.
"I am," he said. "I will."
I sent Matt upstairs before me so that we wouldn't stumble into the kitchen together, suspiciously flushed. Matt's hair looked a little wild but I let that go. Only Chrissy might notice and know what it meant, and the thought made me wickedly gleeful.
I pulled on my bikini top and shorts, throwing a long t-shirt overtop.
We strolled through the yard as night came on. Matt took my hand.
I couldn't shake the feeling that something was troubling him, though other times he looked so content that my worries seemed silly.
Whatever the case, we gave up trying to avoid public displays of affection. In plain view of dad on the deck and mom in the kitchen (and Chrissy potentially spying from her room), Matt pressed me against an old cottonwood and kissed me longingly.
We lay together in the hammock, cackling and nearly pitching out of it until we got settled. I told him how much his library impressed me. We chatted about the authors we both liked—Frost, Chandler, Kerouac—and Matt quoted a poem to me, "The Fire of Drift-wood."
"That's one of my favorites," he said.
He'd recited the lines with feeling and then flashed a small, self-deprecating smirk, as if I might mock him.
"It's beautiful," I said, "and sad. Do you like sad things?"
I ran my fingers along the neckline of his shirt. I had finally relaxed enough to stop worrying that I was crushing the breath out of him. The only hammock arrangement that didn't end with us in the dirt was me stretched out on top of Matt.
He feathered his fingers through my hair and gazed up into the sky.
"I guess so. At least, sad things seem truest to me."
"Truest? Happiness isn't true?"
"It's true." He smiled. "But sadness is truer. Whatever else life contains, it's sad because it has to end."