by Penny Reid
“Good. Then I have a question.” His eyes lowered to my chin, neck, the front of my shirt. I’d noticed the last time we were together that he’d seemed preoccupied by the front of my shirt. He’d kept scowling at it like the fabric posed a problem. That’s why today’s shirt was a button-down, for easy access, should things progress. “How much does it bother you that I’ve never dated anyone?”
“What? No! It doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t bother me at all.” After the words were out, I knew I’d doth protested too much.
“But?” His eyes were back on mine, searching, penetrating.
AH! DON’T THINK ABOUT PENETRATION!
Flustered, I leaned back, accidentally hitting the car horn, which only made me more flustered. “Sorry!”
“It’s okay.” He grinned, kissing my chin and holding my body tighter when I made to move back to my seat. “No. Stay. It’s okay. You were saying?”
Huffing, I glanced around at the dim parking lot; the sun was setting; we didn’t have a ton of privacy, but there weren’t many cars nearby, and all of them were empty. “Uh, it doesn’t bother me. A few weeks ago, it bothered me a little, but only because being your first everything felt like a lot of pressure. But it doesn’t bother me now.”
Now he grimaced, so I cupped his face and placed a kiss on his delectable lips. “Let me rephrase that. I put pressure on myself, you did not put pressure on me. I mean, you avoided this for months, right? You avoided telling me the truth for months?”
He nodded, looking resigned and a shade amused, like he was either inwardly laughing at himself or the situation. “I was very stupid.”
“Why did you do that?”
“So many reasons. Many of which we’ve already talked about.” He blew out a breath, his lips curving into a rueful-looking grin.
“But I’m guessing part of it, or one of the reasons, was because you’ve never dated anyone. Right?”
Victor looped a long strand of my hair around his finger while he spoke. “That was one of the reasons, but not really. It was more about what I’ve already said. I believed you deserved someone experienced, who already knew what to do, and wouldn’t require so much direction, patience, and help.”
I scoffed, pulling a face. “The truth is, I’ve never met a guy who didn’t need direction, patience, and help.”
He quirked an eyebrow at that, looking less resigned and more diverted. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. And my boyfriends have been all over the spectrum of guy-types: jocks, nerds, jock-nerds, bossy guys, timid guys, and everything in between. Every single one has needed help with his technique. Or he wanted to do stuff that was a huge turnoff for me. I almost wonder—” I stopped myself, clamping my mouth shut.
His gaze cut to mine. “What?”
I swallowed, examining him. The thing was, old habits are hard to break. I’d just almost asked him if I could be honest.
But I shouldn’t have to ask him if I could be honest. I should just, you know, be honest.
“I wonder if it’s ultimately better, easier, you know? Even with my last boyfriend, he’d done things with other girls. He just hadn’t gone all the way with anyone. I wonder if it’s better that we started with you having zero experience. It’s like, most guys get into these bad habits. But you’re a blank slate. You didn’t know what you liked, or what you thought you liked. And I’ve been helping you figure it out, and it’s been wonderful.”
He gave me a smirk, albeit a warm smirk. “I think you’re just trying to look on the bright side of this situation.”
“I’m honestly not.” I laughed, shaking my head. “The more I think about it, the more of a relief it is.”
“It’s a relief that I’m a virgin.” His tone was flat-tire flat.
I wanted to say, We can change that. Anytime. Like how about now?
Instead, I said, “Yeeeeeah. It’s a relief.” My voice was higher than I’d intended, and I had to clear my throat before continuing, “The pressure is off for me. I don’t have to worry about living up to anyone from your past, or—”
“But I do.”
“No. Don’t you see?” I rewound my arms around his neck, scratching my nails into the short hairs at the back of his head, and speaking my mind. “That’s the best part. I shall form you into my own ideal sex toy.”
He flushed and he laughed, his eyes cutting away like I’d embarrassed him. But upon further inspection, I realized that I’d pleased him. This was a flush of pleasure.
He cleared his throat, swallowed, his eyes returning to mine, bright and hot and hungry. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.” We shared a smile for a moment before a thought occurred to me. “Hey, do you mind homework?”
“Pardon?”
“Homework? If I gave you some books to read on the subject? For us to discuss and try out when we’re together? Think of it like an independent study with a lab component.”
“Not at all. Actually, I’d appreciate it.” He was drumming his fingers on my thigh again and the color on his cheeks was now a deeper red. “Can we start with nomenclature?”
“With what?”
“What to call certain things. Can we come up with a list of names you prefer?”
“Names?” I cocked my head to the side, wrinkling my nose slightly. “You mean like names for our private parts?”
Victor laughed again, looking at me like I was wonderful. Later, I’d probably think back to this moment and pant.
“No, not necessarily. I meant names for things that we want to do.”
I still wasn’t getting it. “Uh, can you give me an example?”
“Sure.” He licked his lips, his fingers flexing on my legs. “For example, ‘fingering.’ Does that term work? Or I’ve also seen ‘finger banging’ used, the equivalent of ‘hand job’ for men. Another way we could refer to it is using a sports analogy, which seems to be popular based on its search ranking as a synonym to the original concept, i.e. ‘second base.’ Musical terms have also been adopted and referenced, such as ‘strumming’ or ‘playing.’”
And now I was panting.
This was because, when he’d spoken, his voice had grown deep, authoritative. It was his professor-splain voice, and it caused a giant sexy shock to race down my spine to the apex of my thighs, a hot, heavy, aching, thirsting, desperate emptiness.
I needed. . .
I need . . .
“I think we should go see the movie,” I said weakly, my voice cracking, moving to unstraddle his lap before he could feel the abrupt dampness between my legs.
Once again, his hands stayed me, holding me in place. “Wait, wait. What did I say? Did I upset you?”
He was trying to catch my gaze, but I couldn’t look at him, so I closed my eyes and covered my face. “No. I’m not upset.”
I’m just really, really horny.
This was the longest I’d gone without sex in a relationship. My very first boyfriend—the jock who’d inadvertently scared me and then apologized later when he realized how terrified I was—had been extremely experienced for a seventeen-year-old. I’d been fifteen and my hormones had been off the chain insane. We’d had sex one week after dating and then every chance we got for three months, until I broke up with him over the freak-out incident.
With Victor, it had been three and a half weeks of just necking. No boobs had been touched—over or under the clothes—and every day without him jumping my bones wound me a little tighter.
“If you’re not upset, why are you covering your face?”
“Because I want you to touch me, but I also know we need to go slow.”
“Touch you? I am touching you.” His hands near my knees squeezed, as though to prove his point.
“No, ‘touching’ as a synonym for ‘fingering.’”
He was quiet, and I knew he was staring at the back of my hands obscuring my face, but I couldn’t seem to drop them. It’s not that I was embarrassed.
Okay, it’s not that I was only embarrassed,
I was also running low on self-control. Looking at him now, at his gorgeous jaw and lips and nose, but mostly his eyes, would only make me do something rash, like make a seduction attempt.
But then, his hands moved. They slid from my knees higher, his fingertips whispering over the inside of my thighs, and before I comprehended what was happening, he rubbed me through my underwear with the pad of his thumb.
I experienced a jolt and I stiffened, but I also moaned, my hands falling from my face and seeking his shoulders as he continued to stroke me through the fabric.
Damn.
Damn.
I didn’t care that he could feel the wetness there, I didn’t care that we were in his car and it wasn’t fully dark and we both had all our clothes on. All I cared about was that he was touching me, and I couldn’t decide if it felt like heavenly-bliss or hellish-torment.
And then, he slipped his thumb inside the fabric.
A hot, hitching breath escaped me, and my eyes flew open. He was watching, his eyes dark, darting all over, as though greedy for every reaction. His erection pressed insistently against the inside of my thigh and his hips moved, again restless as his stare landed on the front of my shirt.
Maybe he sent me a mental directive, maybe I’d lost my mind, who can say for certain? But the next minute, I was unbuttoning my shirt with shaking fingers and unclasping the front of my bra, exposing myself to him.
Victor released a ragged breath and abruptly surged forward, his mouth hungrily licking and biting and tasting my breast. I dug my nails into the back of his head and rocked against his thumb, wanting more, wanting him inside me.
“Please,” I said, but the single word was all I could manage. So, I repeated it. “Please.”
He made a sound like a groan and a growl, moving to my left breast with teeth and tongue, and cupping the other in his palm, massaging me reverently, groaning again. He was an excellent multitasker.
“Emily. I need you. I need. . .”
This was the farthest we’d gone by a huge margin, and the edges of reality were suddenly a blur. His thumb rubbing circles over my slick center, his tongue swirling around my nipple, catching my other nipple between his fingers and rolling, pinching, tugging.
“Fuck me,” I breathed.
His hands left my body, and I whimpered. The little sound a pathetic protest on its own, but I followed it with, “No. Please. Don’t stop,” just in case he thought I might be above begging.
For the record, I was not above begging in that moment. Everything he’d done had felt so good, so incredibly essential, I wondered if I might die if he didn’t continue. And then I remembered what I’d just said.
Fuck me.
Ah.
Shit!
Daaaaaaaaammmiiiiiiiittttttt!!!!
The words had been meant as an exclamation, but he’d probably thought I’d meant them as a suggestion, and now he was pulling away and putting the brakes on, and I’d been so close, so close, but then I’d ruined it and—
The sound of a zipper being undone pulled me out of my self-recrimination, that and Victor pulling the lever on his seat and reclining the back. I looked at him through the fog of my own lust, watched as he encouraged me to lift myself higher so he could push down his pants, his erection springing free.
My eyes bulged, my mouth suddenly watering.
Daaaaaaaaammmnn. . . girl. Yes! Now that’s a dick.
Excitement and anticipation pumped through my veins, good intentions and all thought of regret completely eclipsed by the promise of having him, inside me, touching me, watching him come. I wanted it, him, so badly, and I could not distinguish between need and want.
His hand gripped his shaft and I pulled it away, wrapping my fingers in their place and moaning like a sex fiend when I felt the smooth, silky heat of him. He hissed. Our eyes met.
In the next second, his fingers were frantically digging into my underwear at my hips, trying to tug it down. My position meant that wasn’t going to work, which left my crazy mind with two options, neither of which was to stop: either I could move the crotch to one side and mount him with it semi in the way, or I could tear off my underwear.
Releasing his magnificent member—and tangentially deciding magnificent member was what I would call it henceforth—I reached under my skirt, dug my nails into the mesh netting at my stomach, and tore the fabric wide open.
“Em—!”
I gripped him again and, not wasting another second, I lowered myself, releasing a heady, forceful breath as my body tensed and bowed at the marvelous invasion. Victor also breathed out, pressing his head back against the headrest and releasing a string of curses that were so filthy, they both shocked and delighted me.
And then I moved.
The tightness within me coiling and releasing, easing and twisting as I rocked, pushing deeper, wanting—needing—every perfect inch of him.
“Fuck, Emily. Fuck.” His fingers were punishing where they gripped my legs, his attention affixed to my breasts as I moved over him, his face flush, his eyes unnaturally bright.
I was covered in sweat. The inside of the car had fogged. I tasted salt and smelled sex and my knee was digging painfully into the center console and my hair was wild, sticking to my face and neck and breasts.
But Victor . . . Damn. He was so damn beautiful. And he felt so good. And he made me feel so, so good. I shifted, instead of moving up and down, I pivoted my pelvis back and forth, insatiable, wanting to feel every stroke of his length against my clitoris and the head of his cock deep, deep within me.
“Oh God,” he said, his eyes starting to roll back.
“Not yet!” I grabbed his hand and placed his thumb at my center. “Touch me.”
He immediately complied, lifting onto his other elbow, his teeth clenched together, his eyes on mine.
It was his eyes that sent me over the edge. Well, it was his eyes and everything else. They’d gone wild. He did not look like he was in his right mind. He looked possessed. And I loved it.
Every muscle in my body tensed, stars burst behind my eyes, and I made sounds. So many sounds. Oh! The sounds that I made!!
Obliquely, I felt him move beneath me, his hips rolling in an inelegant, needful rhythm, wringing another orgasm from me, my moans and sighs despairing, begging, pleading as his arms came around my body, his labored exhales falling between the valley of my breasts.
And then he fell backward, bringing me with him, his hands in my hair to move it out of my face. His lips followed, trailing over my face until they found mine, kissing me deeply as though he wished to sip the life from my body with the perfection of his tongue.
We lay like that for some indeterminate time, kissing, his hands moving over me, stroking my back, grabbing and kneading my ass, slipping between us to palm my breast.
“Emily,” he whispered, an edge in his voice pulling me from my foggy euphoria and brainlessness.
“Hmm? What’s wrong?” I tried to lift myself off his chest, but he held me to him.
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong. It’s just . . .”
“What?” When I attempted to lift myself this time, he let me, and I found his stare searching, urgent, still tinged with wildness. “What is it?”
“I need you.”
“You—”
“Again. Now.”
My eyes widened. “Now?”
He nodded, his hand moving from my breast to where we were still joined, touching me, making me chase my breath and my toes curl in my shoes.
“Yes. Right now.”
Wait a minute . . . was I still wearing my shoes?
Ah. What the heck. I didn’t need to be naked, or shoeless, or in a bed. Clearly, I’d lost my mind over this man.
Equally as obvious, he’d also lost his mind over me.
Chapter 22
*Victor*
More than anything, I hadn’t expected the voraciousness. But in biological terms, for bonding and mating and longevity, the insatiability made complete sense.
> For instance, when you’re hungry, you tend to care slightly less about everything and everyone except what (or who) you’re craving. Or maybe you care more. Either way, the net total was the same.
When we finally made it out of the car and into my apartment, Emily suggested a shower. I immediately agreed and unthinkingly followed her into the bathroom, smiled at her as she smiled at me, undressed her as she undressed me, caressed her skin as she caressed mine, until—
“Victor! Oh my—these scars.” Her stare was fastened to my chest and she divided her focus between my eyes and the two incisions. “What happened?”
I closed my eyes, only for a moment, as the momentum of the last hour finally caught up with me and it was like coming awake from the most miraculous dream. I hadn’t meant for her to see them, not yet. I’d wanted to tell her about the surgery, and why I’d decided to have it, and when, and what it meant.
But, unthinkingly—or rather, perhaps more accurately, incapable of thought—I’d allowed her to remove my shirt, because I saw only her.
“Victor?”
“These are incisions, where the doctor cut to remove the excess skin. I have another”—I gestured to my stomach—“just beneath the waistband of my boxers.”
She frowned at me, then blinked as though startled, but on a delay. “You—” she shook her head “—you had the skin removed? When? I thought—I thought—”
“Over spring break.” Grasping her hands in both of mine, I placed her palms on my chest, flat over the lines. They’d healed, but they were still sensitive to the touch.
She shuffled closer, her eyes searching and troubled. “But why?”
“It was uncomfortable,” I said, speaking the easiest half of the truth first before adding, “And because I decided I didn’t care what anyone thought. Except you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
“But—but you didn’t have to do this for me. I wouldn’t have cared one way or the other.” Her hands slid from my chest to my sides and she placed two tender kisses on the lines, her forehead wrinkled with worry. “You have to know, it’s not just your skin that I love, but all of you.”
