Love Out Loud

by Aimee Salter

  I let my hands trail down Crash’s back until I grasp his hips where he lies between my thighs, and pull him harder against me.

  Crash’s voice is so deep, I can hear how much he wants me. It makes me feel beautiful. I arch into him.

  Then suddenly he’s gone, all his weight, his hands, his kiss are gone. I push up on my elbows.

  My boyfriend—my fiancée!—stands next to the couch, pulling his shirt off from the back of his neck in a move that dries my mouth. When he pulls his arms out of it and chucks it across the room, revealing the wiry muscle that coils over his entire body—the firm pecs with a sun tattoo, cut six-pack, and those lines from above his hips that disappear into his waistband.

  “We’ll finish the date later,” Crash says, a smile in his husky voice. “C’mon. I’ve got something to show you.” He holds out a hand and I take it and let him help me up from the couch. He pulls me into another kiss, his fingers in my hair in a way that gives me goosebumps. Then he kisses his way to my ear, “I’ll take care of you, Kelly. Forever. Let me show you how beautiful you are, how I love you.”

  I grab his neck and pull him down, wondering how I’ll make it to the other end of this enormous house.

  But Crash softens the kiss, then pulls away, his brown eyes liquid soft—in direct contrast to the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw—as he cups my face. “Forever, Kel. Do you believe me?”

  I can’t find the words without bursting into tears, so I put a hand on his chest and nod.

  Crash grins, takes my hand, and leads me across the massive living room away from the TV that’s almost as big as my bed, past the kitchen, to the hallway.

  It’s the only part of the house he didn’t show me earlier. There are several doors off this hall—on both sides. And one right at the end of it.

  Crash leads me straight for the end one, his shoulders slipping up and down with his panting. I bite my lip that I can have that effect on him—but the cold fingers of fear wrap around my heart, too.

  I’m going to lose my virginity tonight. To Crash. My fiancée. My soon-to-be husband.

  I refuse to consider that it might not work out. That we might have to wait. That I won’t get out of Dan’s grasping hands.

  Holly’s already agreed to help. She’s a legal guardian.

  We can do this.

  I want to do this. With Crash. Only with Crash. Ever.

  I squeeze his hand. But the grin falls off his face as we walk into a bedroom that’s as big as my living room back home. There’s a huge bed in the middle of the wall, plump with expensive looking coverings and a dozen pillows in different sizes and shapes. A long window that should look out onto the street is frosted, so you can only see color through it, but it’s set out, over a built-in, padded bench big enough for two, so you can curl up in its light, the shelves underneath it lined with books.

  The furniture is all thick and heavy-looking, dark wood that suits Crash. And there’s another huge TV on the wall across from the bed. A tall bookshelf stands guard over a couple plush chairs with ottomans, and a table with a lamp made from what looks like a clarinet, or something.

  I stare around the brown and burgundy room, trying to take it all in. “It’s perfect.”

  Crash’s mouth slides up on one side at my reaction.

  There’s a skylight over the bed bathing the entire room in a purple glow as the evening outside gives way to night. At first, I think that’s where he’s tugging me and my heart races even faster. But instead, he leads me past the bed, to two doors in the wall on the right.

  There’s a walk-in closet almost as big as my bedroom that Crash—with his limited, though growing wardrobe—is using to house his guitars. Nine of them lined up on stands under one long clothes rack, and several other weird instruments he knows how to play, but that I can’t even pronounce, hanging on the back wall.

  I giggle. “The rest of the house looks barely finished. But your instruments all have their homes,” I say, twining our fingers tighter.

  Crash shrugs. “Priorities.” He clears his throat. “That’s your wall over there.” He points to an entire section-top and bottom, drawers and shelves, a closed-in cupboard that, when opened, reveals a rack for dozens of pairs of shoes, and full length rails at two different heights.

  I try to imagine my meager clothes here and I’m struck with a sense of inadequacy. Unpacking into this beautiful space will take me all of ten minutes. We aren’t poor, but Dan has always controlled our spending tightly. I get a budget twice a year to purchase new clothes and shoes, and once that’s gone, it’s up to me to earn anything else I want.

  I’m simple in my tastes, so it’s enough. I mix and match and do okay.

  But this kind of closet needs a woman of taste. A wardrobe that’ll serve to watch movies at home, or walk a red carpet.

  As if he hears what I’m thinking, Crash steps up behind me and puts his arms around me, our clasped hand pressed against my stomach.

  “I can’t wait to take my wife shopping,” he says in my ear, sending goosebumps down my neck.

  I want to cry with joy—not because of shopping, but because of that word. Wife.

  Instead, I throw myself into his chest. He holds me close and whispers promises that I believe. And when the threat of tears has passed, I pull back to smile at him and Crash, grinning like a kid at Christmas, pulls me out of the closet and to the next door in the room, stepping aside to reveal what I didn’t see earlier.

  The bathroom is a marvel in gold and cream marble shot-through with thin threads of gray and blue. A tub for two, a glassed-in shower twice the size of Dan’s at home—and with shower heads at both ends—face a his-and-hers vanity that’s got to be ten feet long, with lights around the mirror, just like in a dressing room. And warm, mottled walls over creamy tiles that are warm under my feet.

  I try to imagine living here, putting on my Cover Girl, showering in this space, with Crash.

  I bite my lip. Crash clears his throat. “The bath is a jacuzzi. I haven’t tried it yet. Maybe we can later? Together?”

  I smile. He knows how much I love the water. I shake my head in disbelief. “Crash, this is incredible! I can’t believe it’s yours.”

  “Neither can I,” he says, his thumb tracing back and forth across my knuckles. “But it is. Ours. It’s for both of us, Kel.”

  Then he pulls me in, his hands at my waist. Mine curve around his neck and we’re right back where we were a few minutes ago before I got distracted exploring his suite.

  His skin is warm, goose-pebbled like mine. I’ve still got my shirt on, though my bra’s somewhere in the living room.

  My breath ratchets up immediately and that thrumming begins between my thighs. I lean into him and he pulls me closer until we’re tangled in each other from tongue to toes.

  He grasps the bottom of my shirt without stopping the kiss. I lift my arms and break contact long enough for him to pull it over my head. Then we’re skin-to-skin, and I gasp. His hands, warm and dry, explore every inch of my bare skin and I get lost in it, barely aware that he’s walking me backward out of the marble marvel, and into the now-dim bedroom.

  My toes curl into the thick carpet when he kisses my neck, his hands sliding, grasping, pulling me closer and I go. Willingly. Abandoned. Ready.

  My fiancée. I’m marrying Crash.

  “I love you.”

  He moans and the thrill spirals up from low in my belly, all the way up like it’ll blow off the top of my skull.

  The backs of my knees hit the bed and I give a little yelp, laughing as I fall backward. Crash leans over me, hovering.

  I’m naked from the waist up and, as he drinks me in, my instinct is to cover myself. But I’m marrying him. So instead, I let my hands explore his iron-sheathed-in-velvet arms, the strength in his shoulders, the rough catch of his stubble on my palms.

  Crash traces up my side with his fingertips. It’s delicious but also tickles. I squirm but don’t protest.

  Then his hand reache
s my breasts and he blows out a breath, opening his palm and laying it on my ribs so his thumb and forefinger cup my left breast.

  His thumb traces up and down the soft, sensitive skin. “So beautiful.” He looks awed as the pad of his thumb traces over my nipple that was already puckered but hardens further under his touch. I suck in.

  I felt that in my toes.

  Goosebumps chasing up and down my arm and neck, I put a hand to his face. “So handsome.”

  His eyes flare and the tension in his arms becomes trembling. He’s going to break.

  I want him to.

  “Kelly, I was serious when I said we can stop any time. It’s okay. There’s time. I want you to be happy. To be ready.” I can tell the words are hard for him to say. He wants this. Badly. It makes me love him even more.

  “I want to be with you, Crash. But I don’t know what I’m doing.” I squirm again, thrill and desire warring with nerves as he traces his fingers over first one breast, then the other, his pupils bigger than I’ve ever seen them, his mouth slack with desire.

  “I’ll teach you what I know,” he says so quietly I almost can’t hear it over the roaring of my pulse in my ears. There’s so much in his face—want, care, love. “We’ll learn the rest together.”

  I grasp his neck, pull myself up to close the distance between us, and kiss him hard.

  Crash groans my name against my lips, lowering me to the bed. One hand behind my knee, he pulls it up and over his hip, then traces my thigh, his fingers curving further and further around until they slide against me, slowly, slowly, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind them and he grinds into me in a rhythm that makes me pant.

  His kisses go on and on, his fingers on my skin, my breath mixing with his. Until kisses aren’t enough and I’m grabbing at his back, sucking his tongue. He says my name. Whenever I move against him, he makes noises in his throat that make me smile.

  At some point I’ve forgotten what I’m afraid of, can only think of what I want. I circle my hips and plead for the thing I don’t understand. Crash kisses my neck.

  I let my head sink back. Above me, through the skylight, the stars peek out one-by-one in the falling night. Then Crash pushes up, away from me. I grab for him to bring him back, until I realize what he’s doing.

  Eyes wild and loving and fighting for control, he licks his lips as he sits back on his heels to slide my skirt and underwear down my thighs in one long, slow, pull.

  When my skin meets air I forget everything but his warmth and his strength and his touch.

  With whispered words and gentle smiles, Crash encourages me to scoot further up the bed, until I’m in the middle of the huge expanse and a moment later he’s crawling after me, over me, his hands sliding from my calves up, up, up, over all my dips and valleys, my softest spots, and my hardest corners. I realize he’s removed his jeans. He gasps my name and slides his tongue over my sensitized skin until I’m writhing against him, gasping his name, and pleading for him.

  I know what we’re supposed to do, I understand the mechanics, but I still don’t understand why—oh.

  “Crash, please,” I gasp as his hardness slides against my softness. It’s almost there, and I want it. I do. But I’m scared of it too. I’ve heard stories about how this will hurt.

  He kisses me, long and deep, panting like he’s run five miles. But when he pulls back, his smile is soft and he keeps a hand at my cheek to keep me from following him up.

  “Kel, if you don’t want to, I need to stop now. Or-or do something else,” he says, his voice rasping.

  “I want to, Crash. I do. I’m just nervous. Show me what to do.”

  He tips his head back and smiles. “Thank you, God.”

  I giggle and he growls and nips at my neck and I think this is it! But a minute later he’s pulling away again and I’m confused.

  “What—?”

  He leans, reaching for the bedside. But it’s too far away on this incredible bed, so he has to crawl away from me to pull out the little drawer. In the dim light, I catch a glance at his body—all of it—on profile. My breath stops.

  His penis stands up all on its own, waving around whenever he moves. I want to laugh like I’m twelve and in sex-Ed again. I bite my lip.

  Adrenaline pulses in my veins—fear, anticipation, curiosity. It’s all there.

  Crash grabs something out of the drawer that crinkles, then he’s back, sliding between my knees, his body over mine, kissing me.

  I tense, but I’m sure. I pull him close—let my hands dance over his shoulders, his back, everywhere, reveling in the way his skin stretches taut over such firm muscle. Desire tangles with a soft sense of safety in his arms.

  He slides against me again, passing over my center and the tingles on my skin all sink in and down, towards that spot. I gasp. Crash does it again. And again.

  I’m shaking.

  “Crash—”

  “Shhhh.” One of his hands slides into my hair as he rolls his hips again and I’m arching, gasping, aware of nothing but this place where our bodies are preparing to fit together.

  Then, just as I’m ready to demand that he do this, Crash pulls away again, and I do make a little cry this time. But as he sits back on his heels, he pulls me up to sitting. We’re both panting, him kneeling between my knees. His throat jumps, his skin turned silver by the light from the frosted window.

  “I need to put this on,” he says holding up a little square packet that glints in the low light.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s, um, more fun if you do it,” he says sheepishly.

  “Okay,” I say dumbly. Again. “Is there—?”

  “I’ll show you.” His voice is husky, but he’s smiling. His eyes wrench away from mine as he looks at the packet in his hands, tearing it open and pulling out a little circle. “Hold out your hand.”

  I do. He lays the rubber in my hand, flat. “See that little, um, bubble at the top?”

  “Yeah.” I sound hoarse too. This is happening. This is happening now.

  “You have to pinch that and hold it. Then put it on the top of, uh, me and roll it down.”

  Our eyes meet in the dark, his black with desire. I wonder what mine look like. Because I want this. Want him. I’m also terrified.

  Crash takes my face in his hands. “I can do it if you want, I just thought—”

  “No. I want to.”

  We both look down between our bodies. He guides my hands until I’ve got the little rubber circle at the top of him. I bite my lip. It feels harder than I expected. But soft on the outside. Velvet over steel. The same thing I thought about his arms earlier. A hysterical giggle bubbles in my throat and I have to swallow it.

  With Crash’s whispered guidance, I pinch the little nub on the top of the condom, then grasp the top of him with one hand as I roll the rubber down over the rest of him with the other. There’s some kind of fluid on it so my hands get slick. It’s weird, but not unpleasant. Crash shudders as I roll it down, having to push it more than once to make it unroll.

  “Keep going, as far as it’ll go,” he says hoarsely.

  I do as he says until it’s all the way down to curly, crinkly hair that makes me fight another giggle. Then we look at each other again.

  I want to say something, make him understand how wonderful this is. But the words won’t come. Crash lifts his hands to my face. I’m touched to see his fingers tremble.

  “I love you,” he says. “You know that, right?”

  There is no world beyond this room. No air that we don’t share.

  His intensity makes me feel even more naked than I am. So I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him down to kiss me. He gives in with a moan that vibrates against my nipples and feels divine.

  He lowers me back to the bed, still kissing, but there’s a desperation to it now. Less finesse. I’m struggling to keep up, to follow his rhythm. But my breath’s faster too and I can’t stop touching him, rolling my hips in a circle against him.

  He sli
des against me again, and again, and again, that wonderful tingling pressure building with every pass, then easing off as he pulls away, leaving me trembling in its wake. Whatever’s on the condom makes us slide more easily, passing over my opening in a way that makes me sense the promise of what’s to come. But still, he doesn’t push in. Crash throws his head back, moving faster, gasping, rolling, gripping at me. And I’m gasping and gripping him right back.

  “Crash.” My voice is high, quavering, as the steel of him sings on my softest skin.

  “Oh, Kel. Come for me, babe.” His voice shakes.

  I know what he means, but I’ve only ever done that on my own. And this feels different. Better, actually. But not as focused. I arch against him, mind racing, body trembling. I’m not sure I can do what he wants. But I really want to.

  Then Crash drops his head, arms trembling, to kiss my neck. “You’re so beautiful like this, Kelly. You’re mine. No one else. Ever.”

  Then, fisting the sheets on either side of my head until the tendons on his arm are visible even in the darkness, he pushes along my core harder than he was before once, twice, three times. On the fourth, I fly apart.

  I hold onto his shoulders as every nerve ending in my body lights up, beginning where we’re connected, and rushes out in waves that peak every time he passes over me again, until I jerk and whimper and shake, and suddenly it’s too much. The feel of him on me is a pleasure so intense, it’s almost pain and I twitch with every roll of his hips.

  “Oh, fuck, yes,” he gasps.

  I grip his neck with one hand and his hip with the other, still returning to my senses when he kisses me, takes hold of himself between us and, with a moan that’s loud and abandoned, guides himself into me in one long thrust.

  I cry out, gasping, lighting up with pleasure and pain in equal measure.

  Crash freezes, shuddering, leaning on his elbows, face buried in my neck, his hands in my hair, his weight pressing me into the mattress.

  We are one.

  He doesn’t move at all. Part of me—the part that pinched when he pushed and is aching—is glad. The rest of me mourns the incredible feelings we lose in the stillness. My tears well.