Jack is not clumsy, not ever, but the embrace somehow is. Too hurried, greedy, impatient, the momentum too strong when he presses me against the window. The cold glass bites into my skin, a heady contrast to the unyielding weight of his chest on my front. “Why are—?”
His mouth is on mine, and I’m overwhelmed, then dizzy, then confused. In my experience, kisses are brief, something to do before moving to other body parts, to the real thing. But Jack won’t let this one end: his tongue presses against mine, strokes slowly, coaxes my jaw open. He kisses like he’s already inside me. I don’t know what to do about that, so the moment stretches endlessly, full and hot, until I cannot help squirming against him.
There is a couch nearby. A bed, countless chairs, an air mattress I’ve heard tales of. We’re here, though, the windowsill digging into my hips till he lifts me on top of it. He’s still taller, bigger, stronger, but he yields a few inches of advantage and I arch into him, twisting to get closer.
“Wait. Wait, let me—” His fingers close on my wrists and draw my arms around his shoulders. His hand slips between my thighs, lifts one up to make room for his hips, and then we’re locked together, finally close enough.
I moan into his mouth. He grunts and breaks the kiss. “Is this okay?” he pants. Something hard pushes against my stomach through his jeans. “Is this okay? Do you—”
“Yes.”
“Thank fuck.” He sweeps my hair away and holds his nose to the hollow of my throat. Inhales sharply. “You smell out of this world. I’ve been stuck on it since last summer, but it’s gotten better, and—”
“Bed. We should go to bed.”
“We’re not going to bed.” He nips my cheekbone, then licks the sting off, and we both moan at the feeling. “I’m not going to fuck you. We’re just . . . making out. Fooling around. This is not . . .” He hooks his finger into the soft cup of my bra and lowers it. His forehead presses against mine and he looks down, to the hard point of my nipple. “Jesus,” he mutters.
“I can take it off—”
“No.” He groans softly and thumbs the pebble back and forth. Pinches it just this side of too much, making me gasp. “I’m not going to fuck you, but God, I could.” His entire palm rubs against my breast, and my whimper is humiliating.
This is going to feel good. Really, really good. It’s already much better than . . . than anything. Pulling embarrassing, unfortunate noises out of me.
“What do I do?” he asks, fitting his fingers in the dips of my ribs.
I look up at him, glossy-eyed, already a little dazed. “What?”
“What do you like?” He’s looking down at my body like it’s a beautiful space oddity, something belonging to a minor goddess, to be investigated in filthy, methodical, obscene ways. His hand traces my flat stomach. Skims the place where my thigh highs transition into tender skin. Brushes reverently against the pod right above my panties, like this little thing my life depends on is as much a part of me as my navel. J.J. asked me to take it off, said he found it off-putting. Made bionic woman jokes. And then there’s Jack. Licking his lips and asking, “Where do I start?”
I have no clue. “Um . . .”
He kisses me again, this time slow and gentle, pulling back from that initial brink. He uncovers my other breast, and his fingers are back, playing with my nipple like it’s an instrument. Liquid warmth hooks low in my belly. “Trial and error, then.”
“What do you do with other girls?”
“Other girls?”
“Normal girls.”
He laughs into my collarbone, then starts sucking on it. “Elsie.”
“I just want to know. If I . . . if I weren’t me, what would you do?”
“No.” Against my sternum.
“I just—honesty, you said.” He’s licking the inside of my breasts like they’re luscious, sweet fruits. I run my fingers in his hair, bow into him, beg, “Please.”
He hums against my nipple. I wait for him to take it into his mouth, tense as a violin string, and when he doesn’t, when he pulls back to stare at me, I nearly groan.
I do groan. A soft, miserable whine.
“If you were any other woman . . .” His palms stroke my knees, spreading my legs apart. “If you were anyone but you, I would take you to bed. And I’d fuck you everywhere you let me.” His fingers are like electricity, climbing up my inner thighs, lighting up nerve endings. “I would go down on you, maybe while you’re going down on me. And because your tits look like something I’ll be dreaming about for decades, I’d ask for permission to come on them. Paint a picture.” He reaches the elastic of my panties. I inhale, sharp. “I’d clean you up and feed you before taking you home, if you wanted me to.” His thumb pushes the wet cotton to the side. Slides underneath. “But you wouldn’t be you. And afterwards I wouldn’t think of you very much.”
He taps against my clit and I let out a moan. It’s knee buckling, how good this feels, the rush of pleasure climbing down my spine.
“This is way too fast,” he says hoarsely, but he’s drawing slow circles around me. My pussy throbs in time with my heartbeat, and my nails dig hard into the windowsill. I am grateful for my black panties, which won’t show how wet I am. For the low lights. I’m grateful that I can close my eyes, pretend he’s not looking at me and seeing every little thing I’m made of. “Elsie, maybe you should ask me to stop.”
“Don’t. Whatever you do, please don’t stop.”
He laughs, breathless. “More? Less? What do you want?”
I want everything, and nothing will ever be enough. I’m empty and I ache and I’m clenching around nothing and—
“Elsie, what do you—”
“I don’t know,” I whine, burning, out of control. “I don’t know, but please—can you—”
“Shh. It’s okay.” The thumb presses harder, and my head falls back against the window. “I barely know what I want from you, and I’ve had much longer to think about it.” He’s close, licking my neck and my nipples, scraping his teeth around my throat. It makes everything worse and so much better. “I don’t know what I’m doing, either. Not with you. This is new.”
My head is a jumbled mess of pleasure and panic. This is—oh God. “That’s humble of you,” I manage to push out. My hips shift, trying to meet him and get more friction. Jack sees me strain, and he does nothing. I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I—
“There’s something really humbling about having the face of your brother’s girlfriend in your head every time you come.”
Another whimper. Mine. “I was never his.”
“I didn’t know it. For months, I didn’t know.”
I want to ask him what he thought of. When it started. I just say, “I was sure you hated me.”
He laughs, a little wistful, and leans in for a kiss against my temple. “I did sometimes. For making me hate my brother, just because he was the one who got to eat you out.” His hand twists, and something in his grip changes: more points of contact, Jack parting my folds, the heel of his hand pressing against my clit. It’s even better. So much better. “Should I put a finger inside you?”
A flush spreads up from my chest. My entire body is burning, a blend of embarrassment, heat, pleasure.
“I don’t . . . I usually . . .”
I feel him nod against my cheek. “No, then.”
“But . . .” Historically, penetrative sex has done very little for me. But then so has kissing or touching, and as I sit here, trembling from Jack’s hand between my legs, I cannot help thinking that maybe there could be more to that. “Trial and error,” I say, which makes him laugh, a deep rumble in his chest.
“You sure?”
I nod. And then his middle finger nudges at my opening, tapping gently while his thumb strokes my clit, and I think it’s going to be a process, I think my body is going to have to work for it, but I’m wrong. He sinks inside me like a stone in water, gentle but not tentative, and it’s tight, but the friction is good. He pulls back to hold my eyes, and we stay like that, both vaguely surprised, both not quite daring to breathe. Until he kisses my mouth and hooks his finger inside me.
I arch and contract around him. We both jolt.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Here, huh?” He does it again, hitting a spot that’s somehow indecently, massively perfect. My entire body blooms with heat, thrums from the intensity of it.
“Oh my God, Jack, you—”
He does it some more, and I lose any ability to speak. His kisses deepen, become more aggressive, but I am too lost in the pleasure shooting up to my brain, too uncoordinated to return them in any meaningful way. He realizes it, I think, because he groans in the back of his throat, and his other hand moves between my shoulder blades and he pulls me into his chest, a soft creature he scooped up from the floor, squirming under him, melting between his fingers, utterly defenseless. “I imagined being with you like this a lot. But, Elsie, this is unreal. You are unreal.” His lips trail across my cheek. “When I get inside you, I’m going to lose my fucking mind,” he pants against the shell of my ear, like it’s too dirty to say out loud, even alone in a dark room.
“You are inside me—”