He says, “If you want to know, I’ll tell you, but I don’t care about your numbers and honestly I don’t want to get into mine. It’s more than you think.”
I breathe out. I don’t even know what he means by hooking up. It could mean making out, it could mean like . . . intercourse. It could mean a number of things that . . . I guess don’t matter.
I stare right at him. “It’s interesting,” I say.
“What is?”
“That you’re worried about pressuring me when you and I both know that however many people you’ve fooled around with, I’ve fooled around with more. That you’re not a slut. And I am. Just. That it would even cross your mind that I’m not the one seducing you.”
He blinks. Then stares at me hard. He slides his hand over my jaw, up my face. “You’re not a slut.”
“I am. According to everyone, I am.”
“So the fuck what?”
I blink hard and just look. Just wait a breath. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him drop an f-bomb. “No,” I say. “I know.” And I know. I know. I wouldn’t think this about anyone else. I wouldn’t be surprised that a boy wanted explicit confirmation before he tried anything with any of my friends who like to fuck around. I would expect it. I would demand it.
But with me.
With yourself.
Suddenly everything is harder.
“Of course I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’m tired. That’s a better adjective. Strike and replace.”
He backs up a pace. “Okay.” He does an incredible job of masking the disappointment in his voice so it sounds almost neutral. Casual. How it sounds, more than anything, is genuine. I hear, then, what I said, and how he’s misinterpreted it. He thinks I’m putting a stop to things, and while he’s wrong, it’s . . . nice. Nice to know that it really would be okay. If I were.
Which, well.
I am most definitely, definitely not.
“No, no. Come back here.”
Ezra gives me a wry look. Quirks his eyebrow so it disappears under his hair.
“Put your hands back on me,” I say.
He smirks. And take a step forward. Links his finger in my boy shorts.
I say, “I am tired. Of believing one thing about everyone else and another about myself. I’m tired of people calling me a slut. Like liking sex is a bad thing. But Jesus Christ—”
He hisses, “Sssshhhh,” and I lower my voice.
“Jesus Christ. A lot of people like sex. What’s supposed to happen? We turn eighteen and suddenly at the stroke of midnight, everything below the waist turns on?”
Ezra laughs, low and close to me. Quiet. Controlled.
“Maybe I am a slut.”
“Amal—”
“No,” I whisper. “Maybe I am.” I smile. I actually smile at him brightly. And what do you know? I mean it. I say, “And you should. You should obviously ask me what I want you to do.”
Ezra blows out a breath. He’s shaking, his breath is shaking.
“Amalia,” he says. “What do you want me to do?”
He’s looking at me like I am the only thing that exists.
Like we can’t hear two people just outside these tiny rickety walls splashing in the pool.
I slip my hands behind his back and pull him into me. His hipbones jab into me and it almost hurts. I say, “I want you to touch me. With your hands.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
I smile and his nostrils flare again and god, the power is good.
He leans over me again, one hand on the wall over my shoulder, the other still linked in my underwear, knuckle brushing my hipbone. He kisses me slowly, intentionally, precisely. Everything, every shift of his jaw, every movement of his tongue, every breath, every twitch of his fingers, is on purpose.
Ezra kisses me with a plan.
God.
I pull back to breathe and say, so only he can hear me, “What do you want to do, Ezra Holtz?”
He says, “Touch you. With my hands.”
I say, grinning, “Where?”
Before he kisses me again, he says, “Anywhere,” and slides his fingers all the way inside my underwear.
Someone splashes outside.
The moonlight streams in through the window, lights up Ezra’s hair, the planes on his face. I shut my eyes and lean my weight against the wall as Ezra dips down to fix the height difference between us.
I never quite realized how much taller he is than me.
I realize it now.
I’m realizing everything now.
The hard, lean musculature of his arms, the intense way he kisses me when he’s utterly focused, that constant characteristic precision that comes in . . . very very handy, it turns out, when applied to his hands—good lord.
I dig my fingers into his shoulder and he asks, low and up against my ear, if there’s anything I want. Anything that would make it better.
“Just—what you’re doing. Is good.” I make a little noise in the back of my throat, on accident, when he shifts his hand, and his mouth curls into a grin.
“Ssshhh,” he says.
I bite my lip. Hard. Hard enough to mute what things would usually sound like right about now if I weren’t trapped trespassing in a tiny, non-insulated building feet away from my classmates.
Suddenly it seems like it would have been a better idea to wait it out in here, not hooking up against the wall. Suddenly it occurs to me, both of us breathing what feels like too loud, slipping just a little against the wood and the slick concrete floor, trying like hell to keep my voice out of this, dammit, that it would have been the safe play to just sit here and talk.
But well.
Who ever got a great story out of the safe play?
Not that this is something I can exactly tell my grandkids about.
Ezra scrapes his teeth over my neck and everything crests over me. I bury my face in his chest and make that same little noise into it, muffled by his skin.
I think: There is nothing wrong with how I feel right now.
There is nothing wrong with liking this.
My god, this guy smells amazing—is it his deodorant? Or am I just high off this whole night?
I think: It is worth it. To be called a slut. If all that means is that I am doing the things that I want.
I want a lot of things.
Right now, being trapped in this pool house, screwing around with Ezra Holtz, is what I want the most.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Psychological Symptoms Of Being In Love
-or-
How Being In Love Can Sometimes Feel Exactly Like Fasting On Religious Holidays
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