“God… Becca.” His voice was thick, low, rough. “How am I supposed to be able to breathe when you’re so beautiful?” He claimed to be bad with words, but for all that he could be poetic when he wanted.
I could have wept with relief. I wanted to be beautiful for him. I wanted him to like how I looked, to love my body, even if I didn’t all the time.
His hand retreated from my hips and skimmed up my stomach, over my ribs, and paused at the bunched fabric of my dress beneath my br**sts. His eyes swept over my body and then met mine, searching me for visible hesitation or regrets. I arched my back and scratched my fingers over the back of his head, tugging him down to my lips. I needed to kiss him. His kisses took away my fear, my worry that this was too much, too soon. His palm rose up the underside of my breast, and my breath stopped mid-exhale. Then…oh, god, oh, god. His thumb brushed across my nipple, and I felt it tighten, swell, harden, and I could have sworn I felt each individual molecule of air, each cell of his skin as it passed over my breast. His palm cupped my breast, and my flesh spilled out over his hand, the heel of his hand scraping over and pressing in against my nipple. I moaned, electrified, and sucked his tongue into my mouth.
I wanted to touch him, to push the boundaries further. I’d never been so daring, so bold in all my life. I slid my hand down his back—my spine still arched up into his hand as he explored my br**sts with increasing confidence—and traced the horizontal boundary of his suit pants waistband. He had a belt on, a thin, shiny black strip of leather, but it was loosely buckled. My hand slipped easily under the pants, beneath the soft cotton of underwear, and I cupped the cool, hard swell of his ass. His breathing hitched in my ear as he kissed my jaw and then resumed in a quick, shallow pant when I crossed the gap to caress the other cheek.
I couldn’t stop a smile from spreading over my face as I touched him so daringly, my lips curving against the stubble of his jaw and the soft skin of his neck.
“What?” he asked, his voice a low murmur against my clavicle.
“I like your butt.” I giggled as I said it.
I felt him smile. “Good. I like yours, too.”
“You haven’t even really touched it yet,” I pointed out.
He nodded seriously. “Very true. How am I supposed to be able to when you’re lying down, though?”
I shrugged, pretending insouciance. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” My voice cracked as his lips dared down my chest, hot and moist on my flesh, nearing the swell of my left breast, stealing my thoughts and my breath. “God…keep doing that.”
His mouth drew nearer and nearer my nipple, and the closer he got, the deeper I drew in my breath, until his lips were a hair’s breadth away from the taut peak and I was holding a lungful of air. I waited, he hesitated, and I caressed the back of his head with my fingers, subtly urging him to continue. His lips closed around my nipple, and my breath rushed out in a long moan. I felt a tugging deep inside me, low in my belly, a tightness, a kind of heated, urgent longing, both physical and emotional.
I withdrew my hand from his backside and carved a line up his spine, clutching the back of his head with both hands as he moved his mouth to my right breast. My awareness of our bodies burgeoned, and I felt his arm like an iron bar next to my face, holding his weight with one hand as his other traced along the outside of my thigh and hip. Then I felt it. A hard length against my thigh. I knew what it was. I’d watched True Blood with Jill and Nell. I knew, mentally, how things worked and what was what. Knowing intellectually didn’t prepare you for the reality of it against your leg.
Should I touch him there? Could I? Dare I? I knew, again as an intellectual fact, what happened when you touched a guy there in the right way.
I pushed gently on Jason’s chest, and he lifted up, kneeling over me with one foot on the floor of the cab, the other knee between my thighs. I felt my br**sts tugged to each side by gravity as I lay mostly naked to his gaze. My dress was bunched up above my hips and down beneath my ribs, my red boy-short panties exposed. I felt an embarrassing dampness down there, and I knew the cotton of my panties was soaking it up. I wondered, with a slight sense of mortification, if he could see that wetness, and what he thought of it.
Then I saw the front of his pants, a thick bulge at the zipper. Jason was blushing as I looked at him, and I realized he probably felt the same way about that obvious bulge. It was easy to tell myself that this was natural and normal, but it wasn’t so easy to erase the sense of embarrassment at another person seeing you like that. I felt vulnerable, so nearly naked in front of another person. Suddenly, the reality of what we were doing crashed down around me.
Should we stop?
But still, the part of me that was caught up in the daring, exhilarating rush didn’t want to. The part of me that liked Jason’s body, liked seeing his naked skin, liked touching his body and feeling him react—that part of me didn’t want to stop. I wanted to unbuckle his belt, like I’d seen on TV, and unzip his pants, flick open the button. I wanted to see all of him. I even wanted to touch him there. I wanted to. I wanted to see what it looked like when I kept touching him.
I wanted to go all the way with him.
But then my vulnerability kicked in, and the knowledge of what my parents would do if they knew what I was doing. Desire fought with vulnerability and a tortured sense of right and wrong. Was this wrong? How could it be? I knew I loved Jason. I was sure people would tell me I couldn’t understand what love really was since I was only sixteen, but I knew the feelings in my heart. I was attracted to the person inside Jason’s mind and heart, not just his body. I was in love with who he was. I wanted to be with him all the time. I wanted to help him, I hurt when he hurt, I was happy when he was happy.
Wasn’t that love?
And then, almost accidentally, Jason’s fingers brushed over my thigh and across the joining of my thighs, over my core, over my privates. I felt a bolt of lightning strike me at that grazing touch, and my breath caught, a thick lump in my throat and fire in my veins.
And then, not accidentally, he kissed me, and I was lost once again, all thoughts gone and wars of reason erased. His hand stopped on my stomach, low, just at the elastic of my low-cut panties. My fingernails traced down his chest and caught at the buckle of his belt. I felt his stomach retract from my touch, as if to make room for me touch him more.
His tongue scraping against my teeth and searching my mouth blasted away hesitation. Oh, god, I was going to touch him, and he was going to touch me. Oh, god.