“Always,” I reply, which makes Dylan chuckle. He’s easy to talk to. He makes a girl food. What’s not to like?
So after I finish my sandwich—I was in dire need of a snack—I take a deep breath and give Dylan the lamest, but most to-the-point line ever. “Want to get out of here?”
He beams, and his hotness increases tenfold.
Abandoning our dirty plates, he leads me out of the kitchen to the stairs. It’s hard to control my breathing. It’s been two years. Two years since I’ve kissed a guy. I walk faster as he tugs me along. I don’t even care that we’re not talking.
He ushers me to a room on the third floor.
I take in the plush couch, comfortable-looking bed covered with a black comforter, and picture windows overlooking the bay.
“This is nice,” I say.
“Yeah, I love this house.”
He flips a switch, and a bright white glow illuminates the room. I squint. Why do we need lights? He knows I want to make out, right? Not read aloud to each other.
“Can we turn off the lights?” I ask.
“But you’re so beautiful. I want to see you.”
Sigh. A romantic. I always hoped my first time would be with a gentleman.
He steps toward me, gently lowering his mouth to mine. The kiss is warm and sweet. The hard planes of his torso press against my softness. My heart slams against my chest.
“This okay?” he whispers.
“Yes.” It’s very, very okay. I love his smell, the solid warmth of his chest, his kissing style. We relax onto the bed. He deepens the kiss, and I let out a little moan. “Mmmm.”
And suddenly, something inside him snaps.
Everything speeds up.
Speeds up in strange way.
His rips off his shirt. “You like that, baby?”
Is he joking? I barely have time to ponder that before his mouth is at my ear and he’s panting hard, like he just sprinted a mile. He gyrates his hips against mine.
Then he starts making weird groaning noises. “Uhhhhh. Uhhhhh.”
Jesus, what’s wrong with this guy? The good news is my muscles are so strong I could probably bench press him right off me.
“Dylan? Um, what are you doing?”
“I’m pleasing you.” He puffs out his chest. “I’ve been told I’m very good at it.”
Oh my god. Pompous much?
His erection presses against me, but it’s not that enjoyable. God, my life just turned into a really bad porno. Or so I would imagine, you know, if I watched pornos. Did Sylvia really say she heard this guy’s great in bed?
“Uhhhh!” he moans.
Okay, that’s enough. I start to do my bench press move when he kisses my neck, and it feels nice. Really nice. I could get used to this. Maybe this is what Sylvia was talking about?
But then it gets strange again when he extends my arms above my head, twining our fingers together. “You want more, baby? Oh yeah, oh yeah! You’re my little sexy ninja.”
Ninja?!
Grind, grind, grind.
I’m pretty sure this won’t give me my first orgasm.
He suddenly pulls away to kneel above me. His fingers go to the button of his khaki pants. He unzips them to reveal Superman underwear. I am not kidding. He’s wearing briefs emblazoned with a big red S.
“This is moving a little fast… Maybe we should go back to kissing,” I say, because this is truly weird.
“You’re right,” he says, breathing hard. “We should take care of your needs first.”
I flip my hair to the side and give him a small smile. “Well, I guess that would be okay if you want to do something for me.”
He leans over and kisses me again. His tongue gently sweeps inside my mouth. Wow, he’s a good kisser. And I do like his long hair; I run my fingers over his head. But what the hell is up with the rest of him?! Maybe I need to give him a chance. I mean, it’s cool he wants to take care me first.
Then he gets onto all fours like a cat and scoots to the middle of the mattress. “Spank me.”
“What?!”
“Spank me.”
“Dylan, um, thanks, but maybe we could save that for another time?” Like, never.
“I get it,” he says, pausing to peck my lips. He pushes me back onto the bedspread, lowering his body to mine. I enjoy his warmth against me, but how can I take this seriously when he’s full-on grinding me in Superman briefs?
“You want the main course, huh?” he says. “You want a thick—”
Thrust.
“Juicy.”
Thrust.
“Steak.”
Thrust.
“Dinner.”
“Oh my god! That’s enough,” I say, and push him and his overactive pelvis off me. “Sorry, I’m not into this.”
“Okay,” he says, disappointed, raising his hands. “I understand.”
I get up to leave, glad he was respectful of my wishes.
That’s when I hear the noise. Someone’s jiggling a key in the door.
Dylan’s eyes grow wide. He leaps to his feet, grabbing his shirt and pants. “We have to get out of here. Now.”
“What? Why?”
“This isn’t my room.”
“This isn’t your room!”
He shrugs. “I like it better than mine.”
Dylan brought me to a room that’s not his.
I dart out of the bedroom, past a confused Robert Charles standing in the hallway with a girl, and flee down the stairs back to the party.
What.
Just.
Happened?
? ? ?
“Wait, wait, wait. Let me get this straight,” Levi says. “He took you to a bedroom that wasn’t his?”
Hunter and Georgia die laughing again.
When I got home from California late Sunday night, I sent my friends a 911 text that said I need to discuss an incident!!!!! and they agreed to blow off first period Monday morning to meet for second breakfast at Foothills Diner.
Hunter and Georgia are sitting on the other side of the table from Levi and me, and they’ve been cracking up for five minutes straight. Jerks. I rip apart my English muffin, stuff a bite in my mouth, and chew angrily.
But then I remember how we were laughing like crazy at Hunter last week when he got caught in Shelby’s room with his shirt off, and I start giggling along with them.
Levi wipes tears from his eyes. “It wasn’t his room!”
“He asked if you wanted a thick, juicy steak dinner!” Georgia squeals.
“And you think it was Robert Charles’s room?” Hunter asks. “When he’s in the NBA next year, you can tell people you fooled around in his bed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving a hand.
“Was it any good at least?” Hunter says.
“Before or after he started thrusting against me in Superman underwear?”
Their howls of laughter fill the entire café. Truckers at the counter stare at us. The woman at the cash register shakes her head.
After taking a large bite of his bagel with salmon, Levi changes the subject. “How was the pool?”
“I loved it. The coach wasn’t there, but I had a great swim yesterday before I flew home.”
“Pierson’s one of the best coaches in the country,” Levi says. “He’ll help you shave off time.”
“I wish he could help me before conferences next week,” I joke.
Hunter interrupts our swim gossip, “Wait, wait, wait. Can we get back to why you fooled around with that douche canoe?”