“Are you okay?” Jeremy’s eyes flit from my face to my hands, my fists clenched so tightly that the skin is white.
I nod, releasing my fists, flexing my hands, and shaking them loose. I try to focus on his face, to listen to the words that he is saying, but I can’t hear anything, the roar in my head increasing as I think of Simon, of the interest in his eyes—my opening—the possibilities that Jeremy’s presence is inhibiting. The roar subsides a bit when I meet his eyes, distracted by the flicker of desire in their depths. Desire. Very different from my own, but present just the same. I clench my fist, draw in a shuddering breath, and spit out the words before my want to kill buries the possibility. “Kiss me. Now.”
CHAPTER 5
THERE IS NOT a moment of hesitation in his response. I think he moves before I even finish the order, his hand sweeping up to move my hair aside, to cup my face, his lips on mine, my body falling back against the bed. He is above me, the weight of his body warm on mine, and it is different. Completely different from our previous nights of cuddles and comfort. This is raw, needy heat, thoughts of Simon obliterated by the assault of sensations that are suddenly barraging my brain. I close my eyes and let him in. Let his mouth kiss my lips and his body settle atop mine, my legs instinctively spreading, wrapping around his waist, pulling him tighter into my body.
My virginity suddenly sits up and takes notice.
It is funny how a mind works. Three minutes takes me from killing to lusting to debating. Why am I still a virgin? There is no morality front that is keeping my legs bound. It has really been more of a question of opportunity. I made it to age nineteen by blind luck, then imprisoned myself for three years. Jeremy is the first person I’ve kissed since then.
Is tonight the night? The night that I say good-bye to my v-card? Some would say I lost it a long time ago. Lost it the first time I pushed a plastic dick through the thin hymen, the small bit of blood causing the irritated client to accuse me of being on my period. Little did he know that he was my first. That he witnessed a pivotal moment in that six-minute Internet chat. A chat I’m pretty sure he requested a refund for.
I push against Jeremy’s chest, breaking our kiss, his ragged breath matching my own, a question in his eyes when he looked down at me.
“No sex.”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “I didn’t bring protection.” He lowers his mouth to me as if my statement is no big deal, as if he isn’t straining against his zipper, the ridge of him obvious as he grinds against my body, my thin panties letting me feel every inch of his want. I run my hands down his body, tugging up on his polo, dragging the material up and over his head, his mouth reluctantly letting go of me long enough to dip out of the shirt.
I love the feeling of his skin underneath my hands. The hot surface flexing and breathing beneath my palms, my fingers skipping over and pressing into abs, clear and defined, then sliding up and over the muscles of his chest. I slide my hands lower, till I hit and slip under the leather of his belt, the rough material of his jeans, a slight intake of breath pausing our kiss, his mouth lifting off of me long enough for the word stop to slip out.
“I don’t speak crazy,” I whisper, my hands quick on the leather, the brass of his button, the clasp suddenly free, my hands encountering soft cotton behind his zipper. I pull the top hem down slightly and am rewarded by a brief glimpse of a skin-stretched-tight, glistening head.
Cock.
A real live cock. Twitching, responding, panting for me. The last one I saw was during the first few weeks of community college, when a Friday night kegger led to a heavy make-out session on an upstairs black leather couch, my new acquaintance’s short stub pumping a load into my hand just moments after I pulled it from his pants. He laughed with embarrassment, belched, and stood up to refill our beers. I never saw him again. Jeremy’s cock is entirely different. It is different than KegBoy’s, it is different than the fifteen dildos just twenty feet away. It is there, I can see it, and I want nothing more than to tug down his pants until it pops free.
“You touch that, I won’t be able to stop,” he mutters.
He wants me. I hear the yearn in his voice, can feel the fever in his touch, the jump of his skin when my hand moves lower. The knowledge empowers me, feeds my confidence, and I am shocked when he pulls away, moves down the bed, sliding my dress up and his hand down, its touch hesitant on the lace of my panties. He looks up at me and I nod, unsure of what I am even agreeing to, just knowing that I need more. Anything that he wishes to give me.
His hands dip under the edges of my boyshorts, tug at the material, and I lift my hips to help him, the silk sliding down my legs quickly, his fingers trailing along my skin as he takes them down and off my body. “No sex.” He says the words as if reminding himself of the fact.
I prop my body up at his words, resting on my elbows, my eyes watching greedily as he kneels beside my bed, spreads my legs, and runs his hands down the inside of my thighs. “Is this allowed?”
I don’t know what he has planned, what he is asking permission for. I only know that the throb between my legs is screaming for attention, and the look in his eyes is hot as hell. It is a raging fire, as needy as my own, both of us desperate for something more than we currently have, his right hand sliding further on my thigh until he is close enough to move his thumb slightly and it brushes across my sex.