“Daisy.”
“Oh god. This is so strange! Lucas Thatcher is about to have sex with me.”
“Yes he is.” Lucas laughs, tugging me against his chest. It’s an intimate little hug, a reassuring, I’ve got you.
“We can’t do this,” I say, even as I pull him closer.
“If you want to wait, we—”
“NO! GOD, HAVEN’T YOU BEEN LISTENING AT ALL?!”
At that, I slam my mouth down on his and kiss the ever-loving life out of him. He groans and reciprocates, tugging me forward until my hips are barely resting on the island. We’re aligned perfectly, hip to hip, just like I planned. He makes first contact and my heart races as tingles drift up my spine. I want him to get on with it, but he teases me with his touch.
His palm lies flat against my stomach, and goosebumps spread as his thumb brushes down over the heart of my senses. The feather-light swirls might as well be a drumroll, building the intensity until the moment he pulls back and looks between us. I squeeze my eyes closed and curl my toes as he sinks in the first inch. My mouth falls open. Another inch. A tiny squeak escapes me. Another firm thrust and Lucas uses all those hard-earned ab muscles to bury himself inside me to the hilt. I am stretched to oblivion and I tell Lucas.
“Don’t move or I’ll shatter.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“You’ll kill me.”
He pulls out gently and I feel him shiver. Of all the symptoms I’ve ever witnessed, Lucas overcome with pleasure from being inside me is the most compelling.
“Do that again,” I plead.
He does, driving back into me and dragging out nice and slow. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my naked chest against his. Hard pectorals complement my feminine curves. Warmth explodes through me, the first sensation that warns of what’s to come. He grips my thighs and thrusts faster. If I could talk, my words would come out disjointed from the bouncing, from the power, from the YES RIGHT THERE, LUCAS, YOU GOD.
His hand once again finds its way between my thighs and he adds teasing little circles to the repertoire. The pad of his finger is rough but I like it.
“I’m so close,” I tell him, and he continues those sensational circles. He keeps them going at just the right pace, just the right pressure, so every time he glides over that bundle of nerves, pleasure detonates through me. I’m picked up off the counter and shoved up against the pantry door. Lucas uses the angle to leverage himself deeper inside me. He hits a whole new level and I haven’t taken a breath in minutes. There’s no way to tell if I’ve died or not, because surely this is exactly what heaven must be like.
For too long, every sensation bombards me and I nearly tap out. It feels like too much. I’m burning up from within and then his thumb swipes once more and I finally flame out. Lucas follows and together, we hold each other up, gasping and quivering and carrying each other to the highest of highs. We don’t move from the pantry door. At this point, it’s holding me up more than Lucas is. I’ve got one leg wrapped around his waist and the other just sort of dangling, too weak to hold itself up.
So many words flood the tip of my tongue. Apologies, congratulations. A part of me nearly confesses undying love. For what? I don’t know. But then Lucas sets me back on my feet and we lock eyes. It’s the first time we’ve looked at each other in a while and a short burst of laughter spills out of me. I think it’s residual pleasure still rippling through me. Lucas smiles too. It’s lazy and satisfied.
My stomach hurts while I brush my teeth later. I recognize the feeling: the subtle dread associated with change, mixed with a nice dose of anxiety. It’s how I felt this morning before Lucas tricked me into a kitchen make-out session.
I look at myself in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl staring back at me. I wipe away the smudges on the glass, and now I do. She is me, sated after having sex with her lifelong rival.
I spit. Continue to brush. Anything to delay the next few minutes from taking place.
I suspect my freak out has something to do with my current living situation as well. In normal circumstances, I would run. I would retreat back to my house and hide beneath my childhood comforter. But I’m stuck. In Lucas’ apartment. In his bathroom, using his soft hand towel.
He comes in and catches my eyes in the mirror. The feeling in my stomach swells to dangerous territory. I might throw up.
“Where should I put your bag?”
His question is only six words, but there are volumes of subtext between them.
“Guest room?” I shrug. “Is that where you think it should go?”
“Yeah, that’s probably…yeah,” he says, hoisting it onto his shoulder.
“Unless you think—”
“No—I mean, you’ve been through a lot.” He nods and walks out. “There’s an extra pillow in the hall closet if you need it.”
“Thanks,” I say, mouth full of toothpaste.