Sliding my hand round to the base of her spine and pulling her closer, I teased my fingers into the back of her jeans while I returned my mouth to hers, kissing her slow and gentle to slow and deep, slow and deep to fast and tender, fast and tender to hard and deep – reeling her in, bit by bit.
Her hand massaged and pressed. My skin burned and my muscles leaped under her palm as if prepared to do her bidding, whatever it was. I was only in charge because she allowed me to be. My command was illusory. If she said stop, I would stop. If she leaned to my ear and said Take me, now, I would, knowing it was too soon and would be a mistake. I would do whatever she asked, however she asked it. I would be her bad boy, if that’s what she wanted. If that’s what she needed.
I wanted to make it good for her. So good. But not this time. Not yet. Stretched out on her narrow mattress, without removing a single item of her clothing, I’d driven us both to the brink of crazy. One tap and we’d go over the edge. Her languid posture and heavily lidded eyes told me she was kiss-drunk and pliant. She would follow my lead.
‘I should go,’ I whispered.
Her forehead creased. ‘You want to go?’
No, beautiful girl. I want to pin you to this mattress and please you in every goddamned way possible for the rest of the night.
‘I said I should go.’ I pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her lips were swollen and wet, and if I didn’t stop looking at them I wasn’t going to make it out of here. Moving to nuzzle her ear, I said, ‘Should is different than want.’
She sighed in response. ‘Can I see the sketches, then?’
‘Mmm, sure.’ My body protested the separation as I lifted from her to sit up, taking her hand and pulling her up as well. If she’d remained lying there, her hair all round her face, her clothes askew, my shredded self-control would be thrown out the window. Forcefully.
I grabbed the sketchpad and sat next to her on the edge of the bed.
I showed her the two sketches – each undeveloped, in need of fine-tuning. Despite that, she seemed impressed. I told her I would probably redo them in charcoal and tack them to my bedroom wall. Her response was comical astonishment, especially when I added, ‘Who wouldn’t want to wake up to this?’ I bit the inside of my cheek to maintain my blank expression.
Too late, I realized I’d not washed my hands after sketching her, before touching her. If I removed that sweater, she’d undoubtedly be covered with swipes of grey, as if I’d marked her as mine. My body tightened in response to that thought. I leaned against her door and pulled her up and against me as I kissed her one last time. When she came on to her toes and pushed into me, I knew she was five seconds from being flat on her back in the middle of that bed.
‘I have to go now, or I’m not going.’ I groaned.
She said nothing – no yes, go, but also no objection to my leaving. I dismissed what I saw in her eyes – a moment of hesitation that said I could be more than the rebound her friends meant me to be. Imagined, no doubt. I kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose, but not her tempting, luscious mouth, murmured, ‘Later,’ and left her room, my thoughts disordered and my body on the verge of rioting.
15
Landon
Having grown up in a small, private school, I knew something of small towns. The way nothing ever remains a secret. The way secrets spread like wildfire. The way that fire doesn’t die out until a bigger fire consumes it.
Over spring break, four college girls rented a house on the beach – a Richards property. Clark’s father sent him over to deliver the keys when they arrived. Word was, he stopped by with a couple of his bros from the varsity baseball team, and they hadn’t left for an hour. That might not have been a big deal – but they returned that night with another guy. And nobody left until the next morning.
At least one of those guys couldn’t resist bragging about the alleged orgy trade-off – not that anyone could blame him for talking. Strip poker with Cuervo shots and college girls, two guys and two girls adjourning to each bedroom and multiple partner swaps? Most guys are going to talk. And talk. And talk.
Some aren’t content to stop there. Some want to take pics and video clips as proof and send them to friends, usually when they’re too drunk or high to realize that a buddy with a long-term girlfriend was in one of those videos. The one where a mostly naked girl straddles him in a chair, moving and moaning in such a way that no imagination is required to know what’s going on.
Boyce and I saw the video early the next day.
Melody had seen it by the time Clark went to her house the next night. There was a huge fight, and her mother threatened to call his dad if Clark didn’t calm down and leave. He nearly flipped his Jeep at the end of their drive, peeling a sharp right and leaving a parallel set of rubber stripes.
I wanted to deck him when he showed up at one of the bonfires dotting the long stretches of sand three hours later, acting as if losing Melody was little more than a minor annoyance. Boyce told me Clark had screwed vacationers before – he just hadn’t been caught. ‘Some guys think it doesn’t count if it’s with some chick who’s short term. It’s a temp f**k.’ As if to illustrate Boyce’s statement, Clark paired off with an unfamiliar girl five minutes later. This one looked thirteen and wide-eyed as a baby deer.
‘Whoa, dude – look,’ Boyce said, gesturing with his cigarette.
Melody slogged through the sand, flanked by Pearl, who was carrying a cardboard box. Marching up to Clark in the flickering firelight, Melody dipped her hands into the box in her friend’s arms and rained ripped up photos and what looked like pieces of stuffed bear over his head.