“Yeah, but you still go,” he says, rotating in his seat and leaning against the door, his attention still fixed on me. “I chose to give up and be a deadbeat.”
“You’re not a deadbeat,” I tell him. “You work.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have a steady job,” he says, bitterness slipping into his voice for a brief moment. “I’m just a washed-up loser at eighteen.”
My heart aches for him. “I don’t believe that’s true at all.”
“Yeah, but you barely even know me. And if you asked my father, he’d tell you how wrong you are.”
“Well, I think your father’s an idiot. In fact, most are.”
He sits quietly in the dark for a moment, and when he speaks again he sounds calm and content. “You think so?”
I nod, loving that I made him feel better. “I know so.”
He scoots closer to me and leans forward toward the console. “You know what, Red, you are very wise for a sixteen-year-old.”
My expression immediately falls. “I’m seventeen.”
He reaches for me and grabs a lock of my hair. “I think it’s cute that you’re trying to pretend you’re older,” he says. “But I promise it doesn’t matter.” He plays with the strand of my hair, tugging on it. “And word of advice. The next time you lie about your age, you should let your mom in on it.”
“She told you.” I frown, feeling ridiculous.
He chuckles lowly. “She actually told me a lot.”
“Like what?”
He starts twisting my hair around his finger, forcing my head closer to him, almost like he’s reeling me into him. “Lots and lots of stuff, like how you’ve never had a boyfriend before,” he says, seeming pleased. “But let’s not talk about that.”
Then, giving me no time to get embarrassed, he tugs on my hair just a little bit and my lips crash into his. The taste of him soars through me. I feel high. Powerful. Intoxicated. And the sensation only builds when he pulls me over the seat and onto his lap so I’m straddling him, and he does it somehow without breaking the kiss.
At first everything starts off innocently. Our tongues gently searching each other’s mouth, him playing with my hair and running his fingers along my shoulders. He even shudders once when I bite gently on his bottom lip, something I saw a woman do on television once.
Then his hand starts to wander under my dress, inching under the fabric. And the more heated our kiss gets, the higher his palm slides up, until finally he’s cupping my ass.
I’ve never done this with a guy before, and I feel breathless and excited and terrified all at the same time, because it’s new and I’m not one hundred percent sure that I should want him to touch me this way as much as I do.
I’m so confused, and my confusion only increases when he leans back, gripping the bottom of my dress, and tugs it over my head, without even giving me time to react. But he looks really distracted right now as he tosses the dress aside, his eyes drinking my body in.
I’m still afraid, although the longer he looks at me with desire burning in his eyes, the more relaxed I get. But as he reaches for the clasp of my bra, I panic.
“I’ve never done this before,” I sputter, crossing my arms across my chest.
His eyes slowly slide up from cle**age to my eyes. “I sort of guessed that,” he says, placing a hand on my cheek and wetting his lips with his tongue.
I feel transparent, no longer special, like how I felt at the carnival. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says, briefly searching my eyes. “The first time can be scary, but I promise it’ll be worth it.”
I swallow hard, because I’m not sure I want my first time to be right now. I try to figure out the best way to tell him that as he reaches around and unhooks my bra, but I’m conflicted between wanting him to keep touching me and looking at me like this and wanting him to stop.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says as the bra falls from my body and my br**sts are exposed. He reaches out and brushes his finger across my nipple with this hunger in his eyes, and I gasp. The noise seems to turn him on more, the hunger darkening and taking over everything about him, from the way he moves to the ragged intake of his breath, and it makes me feel powerful for a moment. “I just want to kiss you all over.” He keeps touching my breast as he leans forward to kiss me, and my stomach spins with emotions. “I promise this will be good,” he says with his lips hovering over mine.
“But what if I can’t,” I whisper, hating myself at the moment for not being more confident, for not being able to be like my mother and own the moment.
“You can,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”
I don’t want to make him mad, but at the same time I’m terrified out of my damn mind. “But I’m not sure I’m ready,” I say, feeling the slightest bit of weight lifted off my shoulders until he leans back a little and looks at me and that intense emotion in his eyes looks like it’s about to burst out.
He’s angry with me and is no longer looking at me like he wants me. I can feel myself disappearing, vanishing back into Delilah. Becoming Invisible Woman again.
“Maybe I should just take you home,” he says, leaning away and looking out the window, not at me.
My mind is racing, and I keep feeling myself fading the longer he looks away from me. And then he starts to move me away and I open my lips to protest, but all that comes out is, “Wait, I want to do this.”
I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to say, but he looks at me and I feel the slightest bit better. Yet for some reason my shoulders feel more weighted as the pressure builds inside me.
“Are you sure?” he asks, leaning closer, his eyes focused on my chest.
I give a very shaky nod, my whole body trembling. Then he looks up at me and the lust in his eyes is so overwhelming I have to shut my own eyes. Seconds later, he kisses me and I kiss him back, letting his hands wander all over my body, feeling my skin, touching me. The longer he feels me the more settled I get. I don’t feel as nervous. As scared. And when he lays me down on the backseat of the car and looks down at me, I literally become lost in him.
I’ll spare you the details of the rest, other than we had sex, it hurt, and he held me afterwards. That was probably the only part I liked about that night; lying in the backseat of his car with my head resting on his chest, my thoughts racing a million miles a minute.