Crush

by Celia Loren

  He eases me back, gently onto the sand—like he's laying a bride out atop a marital bed. He hovers over me for a moment, coming down to rest beside me. Every movement is a check-in, but I urge him on. This body, this event, has nothing in common with my tormentor in Georgia. This is about electricity.

  Early moonlight drifts through his hair, finding my face through his reading glasses. Brendan smirks, and pulls these off. He sits upright and draws his shirt up over his head, producing a cut, angular figure. I place a palm against his pecs, let my fingers run further down, so they frame his six pack. It's cool on the beach, but the space between my legs is hot. I instinctively buck upward with my hips and become aware of the moisture building between my legs. Brendan grins at me, approving. Then he puts his hand on top of mine and presses us further down his body, toward the mass in his jeans.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe again, before I can censor myself. Now the look in his eyes is changing, shifting from sweet trepidation back to the angsty, intent gaze from the Ruby Room the evening he'd dedicated that song to me. He knows me. He knows, most importantly, that I want him.

  We both fumble with the zipper, nervous—but I'm too aroused to halt what's going to happen next. Brendan gently eases his jeans and boxers over the crest of his hips, and rises to his knees above me. His cock, erect, long and thick, flops against his belly where it's nestled in a thicket of fuzz. I lunge forward. With one hand, I press against the gap created in my own jeans. With the other, I encircle his massive member, which more than lives up to its status in my daydreams. When I bring myself fully upwards, ducking my head to wrap eager lips around him, he cries out.

  “Shhh!” I whisper, giggling, but Brendan just bellows again. I suppose the beach is empty. He puts one hand on the back of my head, lightly, but I need no encouragement. Opening my mouth wide, I swallow him down.

  I've never exactly loved doing this before—but taking Brendan in my throat actually makes me wetter. When I peek up at his face, fixed in concentration below those perfect blonde waves, I find myself wanting to give him pleasure. I press against myself, locating my clit through the fabric of my pants. He rocks himself against the back of my throat, groaning. After another moment, one hand buried in my hair, Brendan takes two fingers and finds my lower body, where we both press against my wetness. At his pressure, it's my turn to cry out.

  Despite his distraction, Brendan's hands shake as he finds the button and zip of my Levi's. His hands are surprisingly warm as they skate across my thatch, before coming to graze my wet clit.

  “God,” he says, when he finds my entrance. “You're so wet.” He grows harder in my mouth. My swallows become desperate. Our pleasures feed one another.

  When Brendan slips a finger inside me, my eyes roll backward— so far that for a second I see the dunes rising up behind us. I lift my chest, and he draws the hand caressing my head around my neck, his every gesture like silk. His fingers fan out across my breasts, digits splaying and exploring the expanse of me over the thin tank top. We suddenly can't seem to get naked fast enough, yet I don't want any of this to end.

  “I wanted you. All along, it was you,” I murmur, my throat dry, the words themselves sounding parched. Smiling, Brendan bends down, so our eyes are right up next to one another. I could be swimming in those green oceans. I smile back, and he kisses me, hard, bringing his callused hand up to cup my chin towards his. Meanwhile, he presses fingers deeper inside me, moving his wrist in little circles. I open for him like a flower.

  The break of the waves sounds closer and closer to the tips of our sandy toes, but this only serves to make our love feel more like a race. I sit up quickly, pulling the tank top over my head, letting my short blonde hair shake out along my neck. My nipples rise and stiffen instantly in the cool air, and Brendan makes a face like he's just found a baby bird abandoned on the sidewalk as he goes to me, hungry, fastening himself around one of my tits, then the other. His sucks are long and deep, drawing much of me into his mouth at a time. I've always found my full chest to be a heavy nuisance—enemy to my running aspirations—but watching Brendan caress me, thrilled, sends a jolt of pride through me. I bring my palms up, away from his crotch. I press him into my chest, fluttering my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. I begin to knead the smooth, strong muscles of his shoulders, which flex against my touch. That's when he mounts me. He draws dripping fingers away from my pussy, and encircles my ribcage with his thighs.

  “I want you. Right here. Right now. Just like this,” Brendan says, his voice low and husky. Of course I can’t refuse him. He drags his hands across the length of me, applying a pressure just shy of pain. Where his naked cock rubs against my opened pants, I can now feel actual heat. I redirect my attention to his pulsing member, return my hands to him. He's slick with my spit, and I know I'm ready.

  When he rises on his knees to help me wiggle fully out of my pants and thong (giggling slightly at the awkwardness), I'm faced with his package once more. I draw him into my mouth like a hungry animal one more time, just as the sea breeze finds the crevices of my naked pussy. My bare legs tingle in the sand, my heels find purchase in the silt. With a look of focused determination in his eyes, Brendan flicks his blonde hair out of his face, grips my hips with both hands, and lowers himself down onto me. Slowly, his eyes closing again, he pushes inside.

  I'm so wet that it's easy. There's almost no friction at all. A ragged, unfamiliar sound falls out of my lungs when he reaches the top of me, being plunged to the hilt. Brendan's eyes snap open at the same time, and I'm briefly embarrassed by the noise. It's just that it feels so good. So round, so smooth, so much better than any other time...I lift up from the center of my shoulder-blades, breasts swinging out to the sides of me.

  “Yes,” I whisper. My head digs into the sand. I move trembling hands to the taut curves of Brendan's ass, look into his face as he prepares to thrust again. The look he shoots me then is as naked as we are, as unabashed, as grand.

  When he pushes in again, it's harder. I didn't think it could have been deeper, but I feel him nearly by my belly button. He grunts above me, pecs engaging: “You like that, huh? You like when I push deep into your pussy like that?” I can barely nod. My rolling eyes find the dunes again. I dig my nails into his ass, grit my teeth, and bring him forward again.

  Brendan quickens his pace, pushing in and out of me faster and faster and faster now. I feel myself begin to pulse and clench around his thickness, which surprises me—it usually takes eons for my body to react this way. But there's just something about the way he drives into me; I have all of his focus, so fully. I widen my legs, to ease his passage, already feeling the damp patch we've made in the sand. My thighs are sticky with both of us, and salt from the sea air. I moan. I feel something deep inside me find release.

  “I want you on top now,” Brendan says, just at the top of a particularly deep thrust. Without quite waiting for a reply, he cocoons me in his muscular arms and rolls us over, so fast I can only laugh. I shake my hair out behind me. It's becoming dark around us. Adjusting myself across his slim hips, I find a new ceiling of pleasure, rocking back and forth against Brendan's erection as he hovers inside of me. The tip of his penis bumps right against my G-spot. My mouth falls open, slack-jawed. I feel myself produce an improbable dampness; I am wetter, I realize, than I have ever been.

  My fingers rake his chest. He presses into my ass, harder, faster, until we're humping like rabbits. He cries out. I cry out, rocking fast, launching my head backward, so I can see the ocean. Brendan brings a shaking hand around and presses his hard thumb against my exposed clit, beginning to rub me in little circles. All of my muscles tense. My pussy contracts.

  “Fuccccccccck,” I growl, feeling as if flood-gates have released inside me. I come for seconds and seconds, like the ocean, lapping—he drives into me, hands roving across my breasts, pinching a nipple, rubbing my spot…his movements remind me of my daydreams, but somehow transcend them. I come with my whole body, feeling joine
d to Brendan. With a final spasm and shudder, I'm aware of the cold again. The breeze gathers force. The sweat running down my body has become cool and dry.

  Brendan smiles beneath me, beginning to caress my skin. I fall forward, nestling myself against the rigid structure of his chest, pressing my cheek flush against his fuzzy pecs. He puts a hand in my hair.

  “Was that good, baby?”

  “Ha. Ha,” I manage to breathe, my voice coming out as a croak. I'm suddenly super sleepy.

  “I'll take that as a yes.”

  We're silent for another few long beats, during which I can hear his heart, flush against mine. The two beats are a little bit off—his is faster—but I find something pleasing in the rhythm we make. It's musical, how we dance with one another. I snuggle a little closer to him.

  “I want you to come,” I say, half-hearted. To be honest, Mama needs a few more winks before she can ride this roller-coaster again.

  “Later,” Brendan says evenly, fingers finding my scalp. His touch feels great, even outside of sex. “Don't worry.”

  And for some reason, this makes us laugh like hyenas.

  Something scuttles and drifts in the sand not far from us, catching the first strands of proper moonlight over the bay. I shiver. While still holding me tight, Brendan eases himself out of me. His erection has abated only slightly, I notice—and I'm sorry to feel him leave my body. Later, indeed.

  “This was a bucket list-er,” he murmurs, tickling my ear.

  “Which part? Doing it with your oldest lady friend, or doing it on the beach?”

  “Oh, the beach. Definitely.”

  “Dick,” I say, mustering the energy to punch Brendan on the shoulder. Above us, I sense street lights snapping on along the boardwalk. It's time to come back to reality.

  I sit up, reluctant, and roll off his coiled torso to put on my clothes. Everything is damp and dewy from the sea breeze, or from us. Brendan doesn't budge an inch, preferring to fold his hands behind his head and look smug as he stares up at the moon. His body, I must admit, is built for twilight. His glistening skin seems to rise toward the night sky with each inhale. He seems peaceful, cut from stone, and is beautifully unashamed.

  “Damnit,” I say, halfway into my tank-top. “Now I want you again.”

  “There'll be time for that,” he says, finally rolling up into sitting. He reaches for my hand, and I succumb. I bend to kiss him, and he draws me in once more, mouth opening easily, tongue probing gently.

  “I should...” God. I don't even know. The slurry of questions I need to answer is creeping into my mind along with the street lamps, and the sound of SDU students beginning their evening ransack of the city. I wonder what Tara and the gang are up to. I wonder—

  “When can I see you again?”

  His eyes are earnest orbs. All I want to do is stay on this beach with Brendan Kelly. I want to wake up here. I want the tide to carry us out, and then in again. But I also need time to think.

  “Class,” I say quickly, pulling away from his arms, his perfect kiss. For an instant, I catch my own impression in his eyes—glowing skin, crazy hair, raw-looking mouth. What comes to mind then nearly makes me guffaw all over again. I'll be your mirror. That silly song from a sixth grade mix tape. After all this time.

  I turn to go, leaving Brendan doubled over in mock pain on the beach. I saunter in the direction of what I hope is my dorm room. I don't move fast, because I have nowhere left to run.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Okay,” Tara says slowly, her eyes narrowed in concern. “While I'm digging the loft aspect you've brought to our communal living space, I wonder if we can move some of these canvases.” My roommate is gingerly holding one corner of a half-rendered sketch. I knew this day was coming, but as I open my mouth to apologize, my roomie's expression switches gears.

  “You. Little. SLUT.”

  “Excuse me?!”

  “Don't lie to me, Savannah. Somebody's been getting freaky. You can always tell.” Tara drops my coiled paper and about-faces in the direction of her bookshelf. There, she produces her well-worn copy of The Enlightened Orgasm, and cracks open a page like she's about to read aloud.

  “Tara, I'm actually not in the mood right now,” I say, though my words sound to me like they're being spoken in a dream. I go to the window, press a cool palm against the glass. I said I had all these things to think over, but for once—the slurry of questions just isn't coming. Everything on the beach with Brendan had felt so right. All I can care about now is how I might go about replicating that feeling, as soon as possible.

  “Is Chase as big as he looks?” Tara asks, hopping onto her bed like a crazy elf. She's wearing cheer shorts, the likes of which I haven't seen since the movie Bring It On. “And damn, that boy has shoulders on him. Did he show you the business?”

  “Tara! Cut it out, okay?”

  Because she's too bad-ass to ever show offense, Tara merely sets her chin and places two palms in front of her face in a mock “don't hit me,” gesture. But I can see she's smirking. And she can see I'm smirking. Plus, I probably smell like beach sex.

  Mmmmm.

  There's an aggressive pounding on the door just then—five rapid knocks in succession. The noise jolts me. I look to Tara, panicked, but she just shrugs.

  “RA Jeff?” I mouth, cocking my head. I mean, I know they've been fighting. Though to his credit, RA Jeff doesn't really seem like the 'door-pounding’ type. Either way, Tara shakes her head.

  “Avery?” The voice behind the door sounds plaintive and pained, and I hear it followed by five more angry knocks, strong enough to rattle the heavy door in its frame. “Avery, please open up. I need to talk to you.”

  My heart seizes in its cage. I take a mental stock of my body—sticky thighs, sandy legs. Tara just looks at me, her face scrunched with confusion. Then she tilts her head. Looks from the door back to me. Her eyes widen, and her jaw drops.

  “AVERY!” she mouths, reminding me briefly of the mother I haven't seen in years and years.

  “WHAT?” I retort silently, as I frantically cast around my crowded desk space for a rubber band. Maybe if my hair is up. Maybe if...

  “You know I can hear you moving around in there!” he shouts, banging once again. “Avery, seriously! I won't go away till you talk to me!”

  Tara all but pushes me in the direction of the front door. It's like she's forcing me to respond to a pushy prospective prom date. It's here that I begin to feel low.

  When I open the door, the first thing that's clear is that Chase is still a little buzzed, which makes sense. But the second thing is that he went into the city and purchased make-up flowers—a dozen pink, real, roses—expressly for me. Thrusting the bouquet into my hands like he's tired of holding it, my old friend leans against the side of the doorframe, his eyes beseeching. Wary, I just look him up and down.

  “Well?”

  “I'm so sorry,” Chase says. “She's just an old friend...”

  “Yeah, Chase. I remember Melora. I remember exactly how friendly you two used to be.”

  “Listen.” Chase screws up his eyes in a way that crinkles his handsome face, and for a second, I concede compassion. He looks sweet like this, when he's apologizing. “The thing is. We'd never said we were exclusive.”

  “Oh my GOD. Is that the best you can do?”

  “...and you said you weren't coming out! And we haven't even done anything yet, Avery! I'm a guy, what do you expect?”

  I feel myself filling up with that Angry-Avery fury—even though a tiny part of me knows he's not insane for saying these things. I mean, we hadn't promised each other anything yet. Dating is governed by the unspoken code: all bets are off until someone says they're serious.

  “What do you think I expect, Chase?” I still manage to ask, my righteous tone surprising me. “We've been hanging out every night! We've known each other for years! Some common decency and respect, maybe?”

  “We are dating. This is what dating is.” Now smiling a little
roguishly, Chase takes a step towards me. I put the bouquet between us, like some kind of barrier.

  “For you, maybe.”

  “But weren't we having fun?”

  I think back to all our cute, chaste dates—and further back, to the electric moments by the big tree after we went jogging that first day. Or the rate of my heart as we ran laps around the soccer pitch, innocent as children. We had actually been children, together. And I can't quite separate the timeline of my feelings. When, exactly, did I love Chase? And when did I stop, if I stopped?

  “Listen, Chase. I like you, but...” But I don't know if we really click, at the end of the day. But I don't know if I'm chasing a ghost of something long gone. But I definitely just had my world rocked by your twin brother on a silent beach as the sun was setting. Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak a peek at Tara, whose arms are crossed. She shakes her head in awe. If even my Catwoman, power-to-the-vagina roommate is judging me right now, then I know I've done something wrong.

  “Don't say anything right now,” Chase slurs, his voice taking on a quiet, faintly desperate quality. He nods his head in the direction of the flowers. “Just think about it, okay? I think we make a good team. And hey, it's a pretty great story, right? 'Childhood best friends fall in love, years later?'” I grip the flowers to my chest. Chase lifts his meaty arms from the doorframe, and begins to back away. He murmurs over his sculpted shoulder, just before I shut the door:

  “She didn't mean anything then, and she doesn't mean anything now. Avery. Please.” His shallow eyes are soft, his manner mild. I try to remember the look he gave Melora in the club, the look I was so sure contained all the love he'd never feel for me—but I can't remember it exactly right. The weight of my recent passion settles over my skin like fine dust. Who am I to judge? I'm the asshole. What kind of girl sleeps with her supposed boyfriend's twin brother, just because she's angry with him for merely kissing a girl? For isn't that really what happened?