by Portia Moore
“Yep,” I throw back at him. “I’m already wet anyway.”
I can see him visibly swallow, and I swear I see the bulge in his jeans twitch.
“To the beach we go, then.”
Thanks to the weather, the beach will be relatively deserted, which is perfect for what I have in mind. The drive over is quiet, and I glance at him once we pull into the parking lot. “Are you okay?” I ask, and the expression on his face as he sweeps his gaze over me, smiling, tells me all I need to know.
“I love water!” I exclaim as I bounce out of the car into the fresh, cool air. I walk ahead of Ian, hurrying down to the edge of the sand as I kick off my tennis shoes and dig my toes into it, looking out over the water and then back at him with a wide smile. I walk down a little ways and sit, waiting for him to join me.
It doesn’t take him long to do exactly that. He takes off his shoes, too, and sits down beside me. He’s quiet for a moment, and then glances my way. “Did you plan on us coming here?” he asks curiously.
I don’t look at him. “I don’t plan much of anything,” I say briefly, and he doesn’t respond. I guess it doesn’t surprise him.
“I would have brought a blanket or something for us to eat, if I knew you wanted to come here.”
“This is perfect,” I say quickly, but I smile at him to take the edge out of my words. It is perfect. Here, we’re removed from anything else, in our own little bubble. I can have my night, and then I can move on, the benchmark hit, the experience had. It can be this perfect little storybook memory, with none of the ugly fallout of a relationship.
He looks at me, the curiosity still bright in his eyes. “So I’ve got to ask. Why the beach?”
I shrug, leaning back on my elbows. “Why not the beach?”
“Why not a bar, or a restaurant, or a movie?”
I shift closer to him, and I feel his body tense again. “Close your eyes,” I whisper. “Come on, you know you want to.” My voice turns sing-song, my lips at his ear again as I see him close his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. “Picture yourself somewhere far from here, the sun is hot, and you have a super-hot girl on your right. There’s a cold drink on your left, and the world has endless possibilities. That’s where we want to go…”
I feel him breathe in, a little shakily, and I reach for his hand, pulling him up to his feet. I don’t care if he thinks I’m crazy or impulsive, dancing with him here in the sand with the waves as our soundtrack. There’s freedom in being with someone that you don’t expect to hear from tomorrow, I realize. I’m just myself, with no filters or games, because it doesn’t matter what he thinks of me. I’ll probably never see him again. But for tonight, he gets me. All of me. And I want the same from him.
It’s intoxicating, the feeling of freedom making me almost giddy.
He starts to sing along with me as we dance, and we spin each other around in the sand, the sunlight glinting over us. “Hold on,” he says suddenly, letting go of my hands and running towards the bag he left on the sand. He fishes a camera out, and I giggle nervously.
“What are you doing?”
“I have to take a picture of you,” he says sincerely, coming back to stand in front of me. I swat at him, shaking my head and rolling my eyes.
“No, seriously.” His face is serious. It’s almost adorable. “It’s sort of what I do,” he insists, and I pause, a little surprised.
“You’re a photographer?”
“Hoping to be, one day.”
“Well, maybe one day I’ll let you take a photo of me,” I shoot back, turning away. The idea of this being documented is taking away the freedom that I felt a minute ago.
But then he smiles at me, that wide, wicked smile, and I can’t help it.
“You get three snaps,” I say, sending that same smile right back at him. “And they better be good.” I arch my back, posing in the sand with my arms above my head, reaching for the sunset as my shirt rides up and my breasts lift. I smile sexily at him, pouting my full lips.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Be natural, you’re already beautiful. I just want to capture that.”
My heart quivers. No one has ever told me that I’m beautiful with that kind of sincerity. Men like artifice, they like flawlessness, curated beauty. That’s what the girls serve up at the club, night after night, and they make bank. But looking into his sincere gaze, I almost want to believe him. I feel heat climbing up my throat, flushing my skin, and I walk backwards into the water, my hair blowing around my face. “I’m being natural,” I say, my voice taking on that sing-song sound again.
I laugh, and he snaps a picture. “You’re so weird,” I say, running my hand through my hair, and he takes another. “If you sell these, I want a commission, pretty boy.” I give him my sternest glare and he just winks at me.
I spin around and he takes another photo. “Only one more,” I tell him firmly. “I want to get in the water.” I reach down and slide my t-shirt up, feeling his eyes on me as I reveal first my toned, flat stomach, and then my breasts in their simple white cotton bra. “Your turn,” I tell him, my tone daring him to refuse, to chicken out.
His response is to strip off his own shirt and toss it to the sand, and I can’t help it. I let my eyes drift over his washboard stomach and muscled arms, and I can feel the heat in my face as I look at him. The sun is setting behind us, and as he walks up to me he touches the flat of my stomach just above my panties, tracing a line there with his fingertip.
“White?”
I bite my lip, struggling to maintain control of myself. “Why?” I look up at him teasingly. “Don’t you think I’m innocent?” I reach up, tracing a pattern of angel halo on his chest. I can feel his pulse speed up, hear his quick indrawn breath at my touch.
“I can only hope, right?” He grins down at me. I smile back, darting backwards and running into the water. I glance behind me once to see him tossing his jeans aside and following me in, completely fearless. The water is cold, but he swims out as far as I do, all the way up to me as I tread water.
“I have a confession,” I whisper, meeting his eyes. “I’m not innocent.” I wrap my arms around his neck as his go to my waist, and as the words leave my lips he reaches down to grip my ass, lifting me up so that my legs are around his waist and I can feel his dick, pressed firmly against me through the thin material that divides us, even though the water is cold as shit.
And I kiss him, almost desperately. My tongue plunges into his mouth, inexpertly, but he doesn’t seem to notice as his tangles with mine, his arms pulling me closer. But I can’t get close enough. I want the touch of his skin, the press of his body. I want him inside of me. I can’t even feel the cold of the water anymore. My skin is too hot, consumed with desire that I can’t contain. I thought I could control this, but now that I’ve let myself feel this, I just want more. It’s better than I could have ever imagined, already. “Come out,” I whisper, my lips grazing his ear, and he shudders as a groan comes from his lips.
“What?” he asks disbelievingly, but I feel his cock pulse against me at my words.
“Come out of your cage,” I purr, rocking my hips against him. “I want to play.” But the minute I say it I let go of him, swimming up to the shore. I want him to chase me; I want him to catch me. I don’t want to make it so easy, but I want him to win in the end. Just for tonight, I want to feel what it’s like for him to possess me.
He catches up right at the edge of the shoreline. He grabs my waist and spins me around, crushing me against him as his lips come crashing down onto mine, his tongue battling with mine for dominance as I wrap my arms around his neck and moan, wanting something that I don’t have a name for yet, some unknown pleasure that my body can tell lies on the other side of this.
I don’t resist as he guides me down to the sand, but the minute we’re down there I push him onto his back, straddling him. I slide my hand down to his boxers, wanting to touch it. But before I can grab him he grabs me, pinning my arm behind my back
and flipping me over again, the two of us wrestling on the sand for a moment until his fingers slide beneath my panties, and I freeze. I shouldn’t like this, but I do. The thrill of him dominating me, fighting me and winning, is undeniable.
His thumb rubs across my swollen, wet clit, and I gasp at the shock of pleasure that runs through me. “Shit,” I whisper, my body shivering as he runs the pad of his thumb over it again, feeling it pulse softly beneath his touch. The rubbing turns into slow circles, the speed increasing until my small whimpers become moans, my hips arching up to meet him as the tension in my lower body increases. I’ve played with myself before. I know what this is, but it’s so much more, so much bigger that it’s almost frightening. I’m hovering on the brink as I feel his finger press against my opening, trying to slide inside of me. It’s a struggle, and it occurs to me that he might realize that I’m a virgin.
I don’t want that. His expression as he watches me is too curious for my liking, and I reach up to pull him down to me, my mouth on his, my tongue sliding along his lower lip and plunging inside as the stroke of his finger over my clit speeds up, and he abandons his quest to slide his finger in. I don’t need it, I’m on the edge and hanging on for dear life.
“You’re about to come for me, babe,” he whispers knowingly, grinning down at me with that wicked expression.
I’m panting now, and moaning, the pleasure nonstop as I writhe beneath his touch, but I can’t just let that go. “No, I’m not,” I say stubbornly, holding myself back. I manage until he kisses me, his hot mouth pressed against mine as his fingers fly over my clit with a rhythm that makes me feel like I might literally explode, and I can’t help the moans that spill from me, or the climax that I feel about to break.
It comes like a wave that makes me break the kiss and gasp aloud, my heels digging into the sand as my back arches and my hips thrash. I feel his lips on my neck, sucking the skin hard, and the sensation only increases the ecstasy, my fingers digging into his hair as I cry out again and again. To my surprise he doesn’t stop, only pushes his fingers against my opening, sliding a little bit inside of me again. I can’t breathe, the orgasm breaking over me and making my whole body convulse as my eyes squeeze shut, the animalistic sounds that spill from me almost embarrassing—if I wasn’t past the point of caring.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” I hear him groan, and he presses his fingers deeper inside of me, moving them in a way that feels different from anything I’ve ever felt before. Is he going to try to make me come again? I don’t know, but I want it. I want to feel that again, I want him. I want him inside of me.
I wince as he keeps moving his fingers, though, and he glances down at me with concern. I don’t want concern. I want to be fucked.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and I growl at him, arching my hips and trying to push myself deeper onto him.
“Yes!”
I can see the frustration on his face, the need. I can also see the gears turning, and I wriggle on his hand, trying to make this easier, so that he won’t figure out what I don’t want him to know. And then he starts to laugh, and I feel myself flush. No girl wants a man laughing like that while he’s two fingers deep inside of her.
“Is something funny to you?”
“We’re having some technical difficulties, but I have the fix for that,” he says cheekily, and I flush bright, hot red.
“Are you saying that something is wrong with me?” I spit the words at him, anger rising up in me.
Fuck him!
I let the anger come—anger is better than embarrassment, and I feel humiliated that he might figure it out.
“No,” he says quickly. “I’m saying that you’re tight as fuck, and I need to warm you up.”
I pull back from him, glaring at him as I shove him away and stand up hurriedly. “No, you’re having technical difficulties!” I snap, and as he stands up too, still laughing, I slap him across the face. I’m so humiliated, I can’t help it. A minute ago I was spread-eagled and bare to him, unashamedly coming harder than I ever have, and now he’s laughing at me.
“Are you serious?” He stares at me, his hand going to his cheek as he looks at me with shock and astonishment.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” I scramble to gather up my clothes, but all he does is laugh, and point at his erection—which to be fair, is impressive.
“No, I’m pretty sure this is working.”
I can tell he’s annoyed now; it’s in every line of his face, and dripping from his tone. Well, he can get over it and deal with the blue balls. He can sit right there and jerk off for all I care. He doesn’t fucking get to laugh at me, especially when I was going to let him be my first. Fuck him! “I’ve got to go anyway,” I mutter, yanking on my clothes as fast as I can and running up the sand towards my car.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he shouts after me.
“I don’t have the problem, you have the problem! Just fucking a girl like she asked you to, and now your other problem is finding a ride home!” I slide into the car, not giving a single fuck about how he gets home this time.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouts, and I smile widely at him, shrugging as I start the car.
“Everything,” I shout back as I peel out of the parking lot, leaving him standing there with his sandy clothes and his boner and that stupid expression on his face.
“I’m completely batshit crazy.”
6
Kam
It’s been a little over a month since that first kiss with Megan, on the street, her tasting like crepes. It’s been a good month, one that’s made me not think about Blair, or being hurt, or the fear of getting into a new relationship. We’ve taken things slowly, but I don’t mind. I meant it when I said that I wanted to get to know her, that I wanted to introduce her to all of the things she’s missed out on.
Apparently one of those things is going to the movies. She loves it, and since I’m a movie lover, too, I’m more than happy to indulge her. Today we’ve gone to see a ridiculous teen slasher film, the kind I used to stay up watching with my sister and her friends when they had sleepovers and snuck them after our parents went to sleep.
Realizing that Megan missed out on those kinds of things makes me sad, but I want to make it up to her, to have all the fun, exciting, silly, and romantic experiences with her that I can. It won’t make up for the things she’s lost, but if I can make the future better than her past, that’s more than enough. It’s been a month, and I think I might be falling for her. I pump the brakes as much as I can, waiting on her to give me the signals, to let me know that it’s okay to move forward. But when she’s ready, I am.
She snuggles into my shoulder and I briefly kiss the top of her head, my eyes still fixed on the screen. I can feel her looking at me for a moment, and I still wonder what she thinks about when she studies me like that. I glance over at her quickly and give her hand a squeeze. She looks happy and I’m glad. There’s a sweet, warm feeling about today, a comfort I’ve never really felt with anyone before. I can see doing this with her for a very long time. The word forever floats through my head, but I push it away. It’s too soon for all of that, but I let myself envision it for just a second. It feels good.
She leans into me as the scene switches and the heroine pulls out a gun, focusing it on one of the other characters. I hear her gasp suddenly and she lets go of my hand, gripping the armrest of the chair instead.
I can feel the tension in every line of her body. And then, before I can ask her what’s wrong or if she’s okay, the actress on the screen pivots, pulls the trigger, and the main character’s mother slumps to the floor.
Megan starts screaming. She’s out of her seat, and everyone in the theater is staring at her. I want to shout at them to look away, to leave her alone, and I reach for her to comfort her, to pull her down against me and away from the screen. But she’s already pushing past me, running down the aisle and out of the theater.
I’m out of my seat in a flash, glar
ing at the moviegoers who look annoyed as I hurry after Megan. She’s clearly having a panic attack, and even if I don’t understand why.
She’s outside. I walk up slowly next to her, not wanting to startle her. “Babe, what’s wrong?” I try not to let her hear how confused and worried I am, but I can’t help it. I’ve never seen anything like that before, and I don’t blame her—but I am scared for her. What could have happened? I reach for her even as she turns her face away, and pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her. “It’s okay,” I murmur, rubbing her back gently as she cries.
“It’s not, I’m so sorry.”
I can tell she’s trying to stop crying but can’t. She’s panting between sobs, trying to catch her breath, and all I can do is hold her and try to help her feel safe. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about, I promise you,” I tell her gently, trying to calm her down. I don’t know what it’s like to feel that kind of fear, but the horror on her face makes my heart break. I want her to feel safe. She is safe.
As she stops crying a little and looks up at me, I look down at her and touch her hair softly. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” I reach up with my other hand and wipe away her tears, stroking my thumb over her cheekbones.
“I don’t know, I was watching the movie and I couldn’t control myself. I don’t know, I’m sorry for embarrassing you, I hate that I’m like this and I wish I wasn’t but I don’t know what’s wrong with me and if it’ll happen again, and I appreciate the time you spend with me and everything we shared and I know this is too much…”
One day, I hope, she’ll know that I’m not going to bail every time something like this happens. That just because her past comes up, or she’s afraid, or things get rocky, I’m not going to leave. I don’t know how to convince her of that without making her more anxious, though, so I try another tactic. “Stop!” I say firmly. “Don’t go any further, okay? Let’s take a walk, can we do that?” I give her a reassuring smile, trying to encourage her to get away from the theater, away from the bad memories.
