His fingers slid down her neck, across her throat, and she swallowed hard as they moved down, past the V-neck of her tee, stopping at her breast.
Two of his fingers circled her nipple over the white cotton that seemed to glow in the moonlight. He was barely touching her, but the circles grew and grew and when she closed her eyes she saw them burning. She heard a moan—was that her?—and there was a tiny sting between her legs, nothing worse than a prick from a beach cactus thorn, and a wet warmth hummed between her legs. All that, she thought, with just two fingers.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes.” She laughed because it felt as if she had screamed, her voice ringing between the leafy walls of their secret garden.
He tipped his head forward so their noses touched. She could feel him smiling, the muscles around his nose and mouth stretching. She was smiling too. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t unsmile, as hard as she tried. Was it okay? None of the women in the VHS tape the boys played in Spencer’s basement had smiled. They gnashed their teeth. Even their ecstasy seemed angry and pained, their mouths parted as they grunted, Do it to me! Give it to me!
His lips were as soft as the satin lining on her childhood bedroom comforter. The one with the Holly Hobbie print. She slept with it on nights she was scared she’d done something wrong, something that would get her a beating from her dad—her mom sound asleep so there was no one to rescue her.
“More?” Brooks asked.
“Yes,” she said, and sucked his lower lip, tugging at it so it slipped slowly out of her mouth.
He liked that. His penis was hard, pressing into her thigh. She was doing a good job, she thought, and dared herself to do more. She let the tip of her tongue flick into his mouth. He moaned breathily in time with a gust of wind that set the trees above swaying, the leaves whispering.
His mouth was on her nipples, hot and wet, over her T-shirt. Who knew this could feel so good with clothes on, she thought. He tugged—a pinching that made her gasp with something she’d never felt before, a feeling between pain and pleasure, and she spoke without any thought, “I’m wet.”
He came alive then and she realized he’d been waiting, holding back. For her. And that was sweet. He hadn’t wanted to scare her. He was on his knees, unbuckling his pants, pulling himself out of his boxers. It was dark and she couldn’t see, but she smelled that doughy smell she remembered from Spencer. She lifted herself on her elbows, scrambling backward.
“I’m not,” she started. “I don’t know if I…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of both of us.”
She was ready to jump to her feet. To run. But where was the entrance to the garden? The hedged walls seemed to rise to the clouds like Jack’s beanstalk.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said.
“You mean…”
“You don’t have to touch me. Come here.” She heard him tap the blanket, the dead leaves underneath rustling.
She crawled back to him, the damp grass soaking her knees. Hoping she wasn’t making a mistake like with Spencer.
“All you have to do is lie down. Close your eyes. I just want to make you feel good.”
She wanted to believe him.
“Can I touch you?” he asked. “Under your pants?”
“Um, okay.”
She heard him take a breath. His fingers fumbled with the button on her shorts.
“I can help,” she said. She undid her shorts and slid them down to her knees. Her panties were white and the metallic pattern shone in the moonlight.
“Stars,” he said, and she heard him smile.
“They’re silly.”
“They’re perfect.”
His hand cupped her just like she’d done herself at night lying on her stomach, rolling her hips into her hand until her pleasure broke like a wave.
He was using his fingers—those magical two fingers—pressing into her panties and she felt the wetness seep through the cotton. She grabbed his hand.
“I’m all wet,” she said. “You’ll get wet.”
“I want that. I want that so bad.”
His fingers were moving again, digging, gently, until the wet cotton was pressing against her and he was moving side to side, like when he slid the fader on his turntables to bring in a new record. He was searching and when he found it, she gasped, “Oh,” and he whispered, “There we go,” and she was stuttering, “Um, um,” and tried to push his hand away, but didn’t try too hard, because it felt good, so good, and the swirling heat inside her rose and rose and rose as he stirred her with his two fingers. Almost at the rim of the thing holding in her pleasure. Almost spilling over.
He was touching himself too, she felt him off balance, tugging himself with one hand, stirring her with the other.
The pleasure was so big that it almost hurt and she was almost there, she could see, feel, reach toward the end like over a giant hill, and she’d never felt so with someone but also alone, because the pleasure, though given to her by someone else, it was hers.
His fingers were working hard now, her panties wet, the crotch stretching as she lifted her hips to meet his hand, and his fingers slipped under the cotton for a few seconds, wet flesh meeting flesh, and she moaned and apologized, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, and his fingers scrambled back outside her underwear as if she’d scolded him and she wanted to grab his hand and stuff it back into her panties, but didn’t know how to ask, and it didn’t matter because they were both almost there, and she imagined what they looked like from above—what did the horned owls see? Their bodies connected by his magic fingers, writhing, shaking, going there together.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she came and her hips lifted off the ground. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” he gasped. “Don’t be.”
But she couldn’t help herself. Surely, to feel this good must be bad.
She rolled over and let her face fall into the sweat-warm place between his chin and chest. She’d never move again, she promised herself, she’d live and die here. Her hand swept down and she ran a finger down his naked hip. The bone sloped like one of the sand dunes at Singing Beach and she used her finger to scoop a bit of the milky semen that trailed down his thigh.
“That tickles,” he said, and she wasn’t sure how she knew but he was growing hungry for more.
“Is that it?”
“What?” He laughed. “You want more? I got to rest, girl.”
“I mean, aren’t you going to…” She stopped herself.
“To what?” He bent his head and she smelled coconuts in his hair, so much softer than she’d imagined it would feel as it tickled her chin.
“Put your fingers inside me? That’s the only way I’ve ever done it before.”
“You like that better?”
“No!” she said louder than she’d meant to. “I only want that. I mean what you just did. That that.” Her cheeks were hot. She was making a fool of herself. “That was good. I want that.” She paused. “All the time.”
They laughed at her. Together. And that made it okay.
“How’d you know how to do that?” she asked. “Forget it. I don’t want to know.”
“My mom wasn’t scared to teach me about sex. Don’t you know about the clitoris?”