Punk 57

The next day, he’s not in our first class.

I know where he lives, and it brings me back to when I first noticed he’d stopped writing all those months ago. I can check on him if I’m really worried. He knows where to find me if he wants to see me.

But wait… I’m the one who doesn’t want to see him. I told him to go, so what if he did?

I know he never intended for things to get so out of hand, and I believe he’s sorry, but I can’t wrap my head around it. Pretending you’re someone else is bad enough. Lurking right under my nose with me none the wiser is awful.

But sleeping with me? How could he do it? Was he Masen or Misha in that truck at the drive-in? Was he really ever planning on telling me?

I shouldn’t have relented last night. The emotions were high, I missed him, and when he took me in his arms, I just wanted to stop fighting for five minutes. I wanted to feel good with him again and forget.

But now, the light of day is so bright I want to crawl back under the covers. Everyone heard him scold me at the party last night. Acting like I’m his property.

They may not know what’s happened between us, but they know something happened to make him that angry with me. And they know I’ve been lying about it.

I force down the lump in my throat and walk up to my cubby in the locker room, next to Lyla and Katelyn as they dress for P.E.

“Hey,” I say, trying to force a chipper tone.

But Lyla doesn’t respond. Instead she lifts her nose, sniffing the air and complaining to Katelyn next to her. “God, did the janitors clean last night? I smell skank everywhere.”

Katelyn laughs, and I tense.

“Can you believe that bitch didn’t even bother to show up to practice again this morning?” Katelyn tells her, loud enough for me to hear. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. Her fat ass was getting too heavy to catch.”

Liquid heat races through my veins, and I hear my pulse in my ears. I turn to them as they get dressed. “You wanna say something, say it to my face.”

But they both ignore me as if I haven’t said anything.

“So did J.D. book a limo?” Katelyn asks Lyla.

“Oh, yeah. One big enough for all of us,” she replies, and they both slam their locker doors, walking past me and down the aisle. “This night is going to be epic. Especially without Ryen there to stink up the car.”

Their delighted laughter grates on my ears and tears spring to my eyes, but I slam my locker closed, refusing to give in.

All through P.E. I stay away from them, slowly feeling their bubble getting bigger and pressing me further away. They’re them, and I’m me. Over here, separated, alone, and excluded. I’m outside the bubble.

Again.

How did I get here? What do I do?

After class, I shower and dress quickly, heading to my locker before lunch when I really just want to leave.

It’s easier, isn’t it? Rather than facing people I don’t like and being where I no longer feel I belong?

I’ve been here before. The uncertainty, the self-hate, the powerlessness…it’s all so familiar. But the last time, I took those feelings and turned them outward, making others feel what I felt. What I didn’t see is that those feelings came from people doing the same thing to me. I feel and fear exactly what they want me to feel and fear.

I won’t respond the same this time. I’m better than this.

I’m going to be better.

Moving down the lunch line, I take an orange juice out of the cooler and walk for the cashier, but arms suddenly lock me in on both sides, keeping me from moving. My heart jumps, thinking it’s Misha, but then I turn around, seeing Trey behind me.

“You know, if you wanted dirty, I could’ve done dirty,” he taunts, staring down at me. “Maybe it was good Laurent broke you in, though. Doesn’t take long for you little bitches to turn slut once you get a taste for it.”

I breathe hard. What the hell did he just say?

He laughs. “You should’ve seen the train we pulled on this girl last week. She had guys lined up. It was so fucking good.”

I push through his arm and pay for my juice, carrying my drink and books to an empty table as far away from his as I can find. I feel eyes on me everywhere, like people are laughing. I haven’t sat at a table alone in a long time.

Opening my juice carton and notebook, I dive into the Math homework due tomorrow, using it as a shield to not look so pathetic.

“No one wants you in here,” a female voice says, and I look up to see Lyla. “I can’t even eat, looking at you.”

And she picks up my carton of juice and pours it into my lap. I gasp, the ice cold drink making me shoot out of my chair as it cascades down my bare legs. I glare at her and dart out with both hands, shoving her away.

She stumbles back, dropping the carton but comes back in, pushing me back.

“Oh!” someone shouts. “Fight!”

The cafeteria erupts in noise, chairs scraping against the linoleum and people shifting around for a better view.

Lyla reaches for my hair, but I rear back and slap her arms away. My shirt and shorts stick to my skin, and anger rages in every muscle. She comes back for me, and I get ready to lunge, to push her back again, but then, all of a sudden, there’s a wall standing in front of me.

A wall in a white T-shirt with tattoos.

Misha.

Trey comes around Lyla and inches into my and Misha’s space, a challenge in his eyes. “Move out of the way,” he demands.

“Make me.”

Trey scoffs, knowing Misha’s not kidding but clearly not ready to take him on here in front of everyone. Especially when he got his ass kicked last time.

“If you want her, you’re going to have to go through me,” Misha states, and I step around to his side, refusing to hide.

The O.J. sticks to my legs and seeps into my shoes, and I struggle to ignore the murmurs around me. Misha’s standing up for me in front of everyone, and against my will, my heart warms.

“After school,” Trey says. “The drive-in.”

“Nah, I’ll be busy tonight,” Misha replies.

Trey laughs, looking round to his friends, all of them probably assuming Misha’s too scared to show up.

“So how about we just do it now?” Misha tosses out calmly and then throws a punch across Trey’s face, surprising us all.

Exclamations sound off around the crowd, and Trey stumbles back, cursing. “Fuck!”

Misha dives in, but then J.D. grabs him from behind, holding him back as Principal Burrowes steps between the boys.

“Stop it!” she shouts to both of them. “Stop it right now!”

Misha fights against J.D.’s restraint, J.D. turning red just from the struggle to keep him back. “Okay, calm down, man. Calm down.”

“Get this asshole away from me!” Trey gestures to Misha, screaming around his stepmom.

“You fuck with her again,” Misha growls, “and I’ll make what just happened seem like a dream.” He pauses and then speaks to Lyla. “And you. Don’t talk to her again. You just want her to feel as ugly as you are.”

She arches an eyebrow, folding her arms over her chest. She knows it’s true just like it was true for me, but she won’t credit it with a response.

“I won’t fuck with her,” Trey taunts. “Looks like you already been there and done that.”

A few giggles go off around me, and Misha breaks away from J.D., glaring at Trey and looking like he’s dying to make sure he never talks shit again. But instead, he twists around and takes my hand, leading us out of the cafeteria.

“Mr. Laurent!” the principal calls.

But Misha ignores her and pulls me into the men’s bathroom, wetting some paper towels and ringing them out.

He pushes me back against the sink and kneels down, lifting my foot and setting it on his thigh, slowly wiping the drying orange juice off my leg.

Pain springs to the back of my eyes, and I watch him, carefully and quietly taking care of me.

Wetting more paper towels, he moves to the other leg and then starts untying my soaked shoes.

“Are we still friends?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Because I need Misha, not Masen.”

I was wrong last night. Everything is Misha. They’re not separate.

And I need my friend.

Holding my soiled Chucks, he stands up and takes my hand, still silent as he leads me out of the bathroom.

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

We don’t bother to look back, and I’ll probably be in trouble tomorrow, but no one and nothing could drag me away from him right now. I tighten my hold on his hand, ready to follow him anywhere. At least for today.

We drive for a long time, and we don’t speak. The music plays, the afternoon is overcast, and my eyelids are heavy, probably because Thursday night was the last time I slept well.

I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive him, but I want him. The smell of him, the sight of him, the feel of him… He doesn’t even have to touch me. Just being near him is soothing at the moment. Maybe I’m just vulnerable, but right now I don’t want to be anywhere else.

A sprinkle of rain starts as we pull into a driveway leading up to a house that’s shielded behind a wall of trees.

A flutter courses through my belly. “Your house?”

We’re in Thunder Bay? I didn’t think I was dazed out that long.

He pulls into the garage and turns off the engine. “Have you ever been here?”

I nod. “A couple weeks ago. You hadn’t written in so long, I needed to make sure you were okay—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he cuts me off. “I should’ve written. You had every right to be worried.”

“Why did you stop?”

He smiles gently, opening his door and taking my shoes. “A story for a different day. But it didn’t have anything to do with you,” he assures.

“Your dad said you were fine.” I climb out of the truck and walk around, following him into the house.

“My dad doesn’t air dirty laundry. Did you tell him who you were?”

“Would he know me?”

“Of course,” he replies, entering what looks like a laundry room and tossing my shoes into the washer. “He’s seen your letters coming in for years.”

Yes, of course. If I’d told him, maybe I would’ve been invited into the house and seen a picture of Misha. And then I would’ve found out even sooner who he really was.

Misha comes over to me and pulls up the hem of my shirt, but I lock my arms down, looking at him.

“No one’s home,” he reassures me. “Let’s get your clothes in the wash. You can take a shower, and I’ll find you something to wear.”

It only takes me a moment to consider. I don’t feel like I need to leave anytime soon, and the stickiness is still all over me, despite Misha’s efforts to clean me up.

I nod and pull off clothes, handing him everything, one by one. He puts my shorts, shirt, and underthings in the washer, adding soap and starting it, and then hands me a T-shirt from the dryer.

Pulling it on, I let him take my hand and lead me into the rest of the house.

We walk through a large living room, and I look around, gaping. “Oh, geez,” I mumble.

“What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

It’s hilarious, really. He hangs out with the worst of the worst at school, looks like a delinquent, and everyone—including Lyla, Trey, and even me once—assumed he was a poor foster kid or nothing but a thug.

If Lyla discovers he lives in a house bigger than hers and mine put together and has a Gauguin hanging on the wall, she’ll be the first one kissing his ass.

The house is dark, but even still I can tell it’s stunning. There’s wood shining everywhere, fancy art and knickknacks decorating the place, and I smell the rich scent of polish. What did Misha say his dad did in his letters? He’s an antiques dealer?

And if he’s the child of a senator, then he has to be well-set.

“Do you like peanut butter and jelly?” he asks, taking me up the stairs. “It’s the only thing I make that I don’t burn.”

“It’s fine.”

He leads me into a spacious bathroom, very dark and very male, and opens the glass door, turning on the shower for me.

“Take your time.” He plants a kiss on my forehead and takes a towel off the shelf, setting it on the counter for me. “I’ll go make us some sandwiches.”

I stare at him as he leaves, and despite the height and muscle of a man, I’m finally seeing him as the kid I envisioned so many years ago who I became so attached to and loved. The one I pictured as kind and gentle and caring.

After my shower, I dry off and pull the T-shirt back on, finding a brush on the counter and tugging it through my ratty hair. Thankfully, Lyla’s assault missed my head, so I didn’t have to wash my hair.

Walking into the hallway, I hear the soft hum of music coming from down the hall, and I step quietly, following it—but carefully, in case it’s his dad.

I find Misha in his room. He’s walking around, picking up a few clothes, and on the bed sits plates with PB&J sandwiches and sprigs of grapes, with juice boxes sitting next to them.

I hold in my laugh. I don’t think I’ve had that lunch since fifth grade.

P!nk plays at low volume, and I feel my chest warm at the gesture. He knows I like her, too.

But then I gaze around his room and see four office boxes, complete with lids, stacked on top of each other up against the wall.

I walk over. “What’s this?” I ask, lifting the lid.

“Oh, uh…”

But I widened my eyes, taken aback, and drop the lid on the floor.

The box is filled with black envelopes. With silver writing.

“Oh, my God.” I reach in and fan the envelopes, seeing my writing on every single one.

He kept them.

He kept them?

I don’t know why, but I guess I never thought he actually saved them. Why would he? Thinking back, I can’t even remember what they said. Couldn’t have been too interesting if I can’t recall.

The other three boxes are probably filled with letters, too.

“I can’t believe I wrote you this much,” I say, a little horrified. “You must’ve been so bored with me.”

“I adored you.”

I look up, seeing him stare at the floor. An ache weaves its way through my chest.

“I adore you,” he corrects himself. “I’ve read them all at least twice. My favorites, a lot more than that.”

His favorites. And then I recall. The letters I’d found at the Cove. When he stayed there—away from home—he took those with him. The rest stayed here.

I feel guilty now. “They’re in my desk,” I confess. “I lied. I didn’t burn them.”

He gives me a little nod. “Yeah, I hoped so. I have mine, too, that you threw all over the place at the Cove. In case you want them back.”

I give him a small smile, grateful. Yes, I do want them back.

I replace the lid, kind of curious to open a few letters and relive all the embarrassing things I shared with him over the years. Kissing with tongue the first time, the music I suggested that I thought was so epic but realize now it was kind of lame, and all the arguments we got into.

Remembering back, I was pretty hard on him. I mean, using an Android phone doesn’t make him an introverted burner who probably won’t ever have a job or a valid driver’s license at the same time. I didn’t mean that.

And I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said when he called me a Steve Jobs cultist who worships inferior technology because I’m too much of a bubblehead high on apps to know the difference.

On second thought, no. I like the truce we have going on today. The letters can wait.

I walk over and sit down on his bed, bringing up my legs to sit cross-legged. He kicks off his shoes and lies down sideways on the bed, supporting his head on his hand.

I take the sandwich and peel off the top crust while he pops a grape in his mouth.

I stare down at the food. I’m hungry, but I’m also tired and suddenly feel like I don’t give a shit. One of us has to start talking.

He wants something true? Something he doesn’t know?

“I didn’t have many friends in grade school,” I tell him, still keeping my eyes down. “I had one. Delilah.”

He’s quiet, and I know he’s staring at me.

“She had this shaggy blonde hair that kind of looked like a mullet, and she wore these frumpy corduroy skirts,” I went on. “They looked thirty years old. She wasn’t cool and she didn’t dress right. She was alone a lot like me, so we played together at recess, but…”

I narrow my eyes, trying to harden them as the image of her comes to the forefront in my mind.

“But I got tired of not hanging out with the popular kids,” I admit. “I’d see them hanging on each other, laughing and surrounded by everyone, and I felt…envious. Left out of something better. I felt like I was being laughed at.” I lick my dry lips, still avoiding his eyes. “Like I could feel their eyes crawling over my skin. Were they disgusted by me? Why didn’t they like me? I shouldn’t have cared. I shouldn’t have thought that kids who shunned me would be worth it, but I did.”

I finally raise my eyes and find his green ones watching me, unblinking.

“And in my head,” I continue, “Delilah was holding me back. I needed better friends. So one day I ran off. When recess time came, I hid around a corner so she wouldn’t find me, and I watched her. Waiting for her to go off and play with someone else so I could do the same and she wouldn’t look for me.

I swallow, my throat stretching painfully.

“But she didn’t,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “She just stood against a wall, alone and looking awkward and uncomfortable. Waiting for me.” My body shakes, and I start to cry. “That was the day I became this. When I started to believe that a hundred people’s fickle adoration was worth more than one person’s love. And for a while it felt kind of good.” Tears stream down my face. “I was lost in the novelty of it. Being mean, slipping in a quick insult, making a joke of others and of my teachers…I felt respected. Adored. My new skin suited me.”

And then more images creep in, still so vivid after all this time.

“But months later, when I’d see Delilah playing alone, being laughed at, not having anywhere to belong…I started to hate that skin I was so comfortable in. The skin of a fake and shallow coward.”

I wipe the tears, trying to take in a deep breath. He’s looking at me, but the heat of shame covers my face, and I’m worried. What does he think of me?

“And when I started writing you a year later,” I go on, “I needed you so much by that point. I needed someone I could be the person I wanted to be with. I could go back. I could be the girl who was Delilah’s friend again. The girl who stood up to the mean kids and didn’t need a spirit animal, because she was her own.”

I close my eyes, just wanting to hide. I feel the bed shift under me and then his hands cupping my face.

I shake my head, inching away. “Don’t. I’m awful.”

“You were in fourth grade,” he says, trying to soothe me. “Kids are mean, and at that age, everyone wants to belong. You think you’re the only one who feels like shit? Who’s made mistakes?” He nudges my face, making me open my eyes and look into his. “We’re all ugly, Ryen. The only difference is, some hide it and some wear it.”

I slide the food out of the way and crawl into his lap, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his neck, hugging him close. He gently falls back onto the bed, lying down and taking me with him.

Why didn’t we do this ages ago? Why was I so scared to meet him and change things? We’ve been there for each other during his grandmother’s funeral, lengthy summer camps with hardly any communication to each other, and even a couple of girlfriends of his who I never told him I was really jealous of.

Why did I think that all the words and letters and the friendship would fade so easily?

His arms hold me tight as I lay my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat and the light tapping of rain against the window. This is new for me. I’ve been comfortable in places, but I think this is the first time I’ve been anywhere I never want to leave. My eyelids fall closed, sleep pulling at me.

“I have a question,” he speaks up, causing me to stir.

“Hmm?”

“When you write on the walls at school, you sign the messages as Punk. Why?”

I keep my eyes closed, but I breathe out a weak, little laugh. “Do you remember the letter you wrote about your first tattoo and your dad saying you looked like a punk?”

“Yeah?”

“So it was a tribute to you,” I tell him. “A shout out to the ruffians and rule breakers.”

“But why not use your own name?”

I pinch my eyebrows together. “Because I don’t want to get caught.” Duh.

“Okay…” he says. “So what you do is hide in the dark to share words anonymously, because you want to be heard but not mocked. Is that it?”

I open my eyes, thinking. Is that what I do?

“You want to be loved without risking consequence, so you reach out to get the attention you need while enjoying the luxury of taking no responsibility for those words.”

I start to shrink into myself. I don’t like what he’s saying or the fact that he’s saying it, but I can’t deny that he’s right.

I don’t want to hear feedback, because if they knew it was me, their reactions would be different. But it’s not exactly fair to throw things in their faces and hide under their noses, either.

“Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear,” he murmurs, holding me tighter. “Don’t you get it yet? You don’t have to be afraid or embarrassed. No one does you better than you. You can’t be replaced. Not everyone will see that, but only you need to.”

He kisses my hair, and I wrap my arm around his torso. No one does me better than me.

I close my eyes again, hearing what he’s saying. I changed, because I didn’t think what I brought to the table was worthy enough. I let them make me believe that, but who made them authorities? I may no longer be adored, but I might not be so miserable, either.

And I may eat alone, but that’s not such terrible company, is it?

I feel him move under me, and then a blanket covers my legs and body, locking our warmth in under the covers. I slowly drift off to sleep to the sounds of the rain and his heartbeat.

A velvety tickle glides across my skin, and I strain to lift my lids. The room is darker, the sun having set, but the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table illuminates the bed, and I glance over at the window, seeing that it’s now dark outside. The rain pounds hard, echoing through the roof, and thunder rolls outside.

Misha is bare-chested and propped up on his side next to me, his head down by my ass.

Which is bare, because he’s pulled up my shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh, don’t move,” he orders, moving a pen over my skin. “You’re the closest thing I have to write on.”

I snicker, closing my eyes again. He’d better not be using a Sharpie. That’ll take days to get off.

The peaceful noise of the rain outside lulls me back into relaxation, and I fold my arms under my head, feeling the felt tip move quickly over my skin, stopping every so often to dot an “I” or poke a period.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” I muse.

“Oh, you’re not moving anytime soon. Your ass is too nice to look at.”

I cross my legs at the ankles, teasing, “Is that all a Thunder Bay boy can do with a girl’s ass?”

A light slap hits my right cheek, and I laugh.

But then, after a pause, he stops writing. “Have you ever…” he asks, drifting off.

It takes me a moment to connect the dots, but then I realize what he’s asking.

“Anal?” I clarify. “Well, considering I’ve only had sex once before you, I’m sure you know the answer to that.”

I certainly wouldn’t have done that the first time, no matter how naïve I was. And since Misha and I haven’t done that, then of course, the answer is no.

“So we’re virgins then,” he says, his tone making it sound like he’s kind of enjoying that idea.

“Yeah, virgins,” I grumble. “And I plan on dying one, because there’s no way you’re sticking that in there.”

He snorts, breaking into a laugh.

Capping the pen, he moves up and over me, lifting my shirt over my head. I arch my neck back, meeting his mouth and kissing him. His teeth nibbling my skin sends an electric shock down my belly and straight between my thighs.

I guess the nap helped. He slides his hand under my chest, cupping my breast and I’m already turned on.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

I stare at his lips, dipping in for more. Hell, yes.

I groan, my eyes damn near rolling into the back of my head as his mouth trails down my neck, devouring me in hot, demanding kisses. He grinds his hips into me, and I feel the hardening bulge between his legs.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “I need your words.”

Talk? Now?

His hand glides down my bare back, brushing my hair and making it tickle my skin. He takes my ass, kneads it, and without thinking, I bend my knee to the side, opening myself for him.

“Before I met you,” I say against his lips. “I fantasized about you.”

“But you didn’t know what I looked like.”

“I knew you were Misha,” I reply. “That was enough.”

He groans, nibbling my ear and dipping his hand between my legs, his fingers sliding inside of me.

I close my eyes, the pleasure of him filling me making me wetter.

“One night it was storming, like tonight,” I tell him, “the lights went out, and for the whole evening, it was dark and quiet.”

His fingers come out, swirling around my clit, and I shudder. My breath is shallow, and I’m unable to stop my hips from trying to rub into the bed and his fingers.

“I reread all of your letters that night,” I pant. “I love the ones about when you got your first car and how you and your friends got arrested for the kegger out on some farm. You sounded so bad, so much fun.” I lean back, longing for his mouth again. “But the letter I love more than all the rest is when you told me about your ex-girlfriend after you’d broken up. I was so mad at first. You had a girlfriend, and you hadn’t told me, but…I think that’s when I first realized…”

“What?” he breathes out.

“That I wanted you. You were mine.”

“I was,” he assures. “It didn’t take me long to realize that I couldn’t talk to anyone like I talk to you.”

And I feel the same way. I always did. I couldn’t go out with anyone without comparing them to Misha. He had every right to date, and I’m sure whoever she was—or they were, because there were probably more—they weren’t bad people, but I still felt territorial. I knew him first. No one was going to know him better than me. I know I had no right to feel those things, which is why I never told him. Until now.

“I started fantasizing about you that rainy night. It was the first time I ever daydreamed about you.”

“What did you do?” He pushed his two fingers in deep, rubbing my spot and grinding himself on me. “Did you want to be her?”

I shook my head. “I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to see me and want me so much. Not just my letters, but my body, too.”

“What’d you do?” he whispers in my ear.

I moan, feeling a wave of pleasure fill my thighs and pussy, and I back up into him, wanting to be filled. “I laid in bed,” I say, “and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was so dark, and the AC wasn’t running. The more I thought about it, the hotter I got…until…”

“Until what?” He pumps my pussy faster, grinding his dick harder. “What’d you do?”

“I pulled up my shirt…”

“Yeah?”

“And imagined you were standing in the corner of my room, hidden in the shadows, watching me finger myself.”

“Don’t stop.”

“My skin was damp with sweat, because it was so hot,” I whimper, reaching over my head and holding the back of his neck, “and I slid my hand down my panties…”

“Did I like what I was seeing?”

“Yeah. We were always just friends. So calm, relaxed, and cute, but I wanted you to want me. I wanted you to see me and need to be inside me.”

“Did you come?” he growls low in my ear as I rock into him. “Did you come, thinking about me watching you?”

I nod, completely lost in the vision and his fingers. “I knew I’d do anything you asked me to. I’d let you have anything you wanted.”

“Is that true?”

“Anything.”

He removes his fingers from inside me, and I hear him unzip his pants.

“And what do you want?” he asks, his fingers gliding up my ass again.

I know what he wants. My heart is pumping wildly, and I’m shaking with need.

I lean my head back again, gasping over his mouth. “I want you everywhere.”

I feel his smile curl over my lips right before he kisses me. He moves his fingers between my thighs again, rubbing and getting me wetter with need.

“Everywhere?” he whispers.

I nod. I’m his. All of me.

I want him all over me.

His breath shakes over my lips. “Don’t do this because you think I want it,” he pleads. “I only want what you want to give me. I need to know you trust me again.”

His dark hair sits over his forehead, and his beautiful eyes tell me everything I need to hear without saying anything.

He hurt me, and I hurt him, but shit happens and love doesn’t change. He makes me happier, he makes me stronger, and he knows everything and still wants me. If he can say the same, then this is it. The real thing.

It’s us together.

My mom told me once “Life is fifty wrong turns down a bumpy road. All you can hope is that you end up somewhere nice.”

“I trust you,” I say, sinking into his mouth. “I want you.”

He swirls the wetness between my legs farther up, and I slide my hand between me and the bed, rubbing my clit as he positions himself. I’m throbbing everywhere, and my heart pounds in my chest as he pushes the tip in and stops. I gasp, feeling a tiny burn.

I contract around him, breathing hard and rubbing myself faster.

“Ryen,” he breathes out. “Do you want me to stop?”

I shake my head, feeling so filled and good. I didn’t expect that. “No. I want more.”

“Oh, God.”

He slides in slowly, all the way, and I arch my ass up, giving him a better position.

“Holy shit,” he growls low. “You feel so good. I need to…”

I close my eyes, every nerve alive and pulsing with need. He comes down on my back, kissing me as he thrusts out and back in deeper.

“Ah,” I moan into his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” I whimper. “Go faster.”

He smiles, holding himself up with one hand and holding my thigh where my leg and hip meet. “Are you sure?”

I nod, intense pleasure washing over me and making me grip the pillows as I arch my neck back to meet his lips.

“I trust you,” I tell him.

And he bites my neck and starts fucking me harder, not holding back and neither of us being quiet.

For the rest of the night.