Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

 

Memories are really easy to bury—at least that's what I always thought. My dad. The divorce. Ollie. All those sad moments are trapped under layers and layers of happy ones. Like the old saying, out of sight out of mind. But ever so often, you see something, or smell something, or hear something, and the dam breaks. Just like that, the moment you tried so hard to forget comes flooding forward, washing over you and pulling you under.

 

 

Home.

I feel like home is one of those things that is so underrated until you don't have one anymore. Before the divorce, I took my family for granted. Two loving parents. One child. Happy. I never dreamed it wouldn't stay that way forever. But until the papers were finalized, my house became a warzone. It wasn't until I left for college and realized how strange a place the rest of the world could be that I relearned to love my house, my home, minus its one former occupant.

But Bridget's house is sometimes what I really think of when I think of home. It's where I came for solace. Where I went to escape. At least it was, before everything happened with Ollie. But no one knows about that except for him and me. So for the past six years, ever since my parents' divorce, it's where my mom and I have come for most of our holidays, including Thanksgiving. And this year is no different.

But I can't shake this uneasy feeling as Bridget's dad pulls into the driveway after picking us both up from the train—and yeah, you read that correctly. Both of us—two of us. Believe it or not, Thanksgiving is a really busy day for restaurants, which is why Ollie hasn't been home for Thanksgiving four years in a row. And truth be told, I'm a little thankful he's not here this year.

For the past few weeks, everything has felt off between us. That uneasy tension I noticed the night of the gallery party hasn't gone away. I mean, I'm getting used to Ollie's presence, to having him back in my life—at least, I think I am. But something shifted during our double date. Ever since, the air between us has been awkward in a way it never has before. He's talking to me less, paying attention to me less, which is fine, I guess. It's just strange. Just something I need to get used to.

On the other hand, everything with Patrick has felt just right. I mean, the broken hand has put a little damper on everything, but in all honesty, I don't mind. I'm a little thankful for that too. Everything has been brought down to my pace, which I'm sure is much slower than he's used to. But so far, he hasn’t complained. So far, he's been the best boyfriend any girl could hope for. For the most part, my life is exactly where I want it.

Which is why I don't understand the clump of nerves tightening my stomach as I step out of Mr. McDonough's car and make my way up the front steps of Bridget's house. And the more I try to ignore the mounting fear, the more intense it becomes. Making my hands tremble. My palms sweat. My tongue dry. But the front door flies open before Bridge's dad can even pull out his key, and I don't have time to uncover the source of my anxiety, because two motherly embraces quickly steal my attention.

"Mom!" I exclaim, falling into her arms and wrapping mine tightly around her. She visited Bridge and me back in early August and we talk at least once a week, but still, it feels like I haven't seen her in forever.

"I missed you," she whispers into my ear.

"I missed you too," I say back, squeezing a little tighter for emphasis.

Behind me, Bridge yells, "Mrs. C!"

I break away, letting her take a turn hugging my mom. The C stands for Cooper. She switched back to her maiden name after the divorce. Joanna Cooper—I've always preferred the change. It sounds more like her anyway.

"Hi, Mrs. McDonough," I murmur as Bridge's mom, Claire, pulls me in for a tight embrace.

"We've missed seeing you around here," she says. And I guess it's true. Ever since Bridge and I went to college, I haven't been coming around as much. Just a few times a year instead of an almost weekly basis. But, you know, the whole avoiding Ollie like he was the plague for four years sort of does that.

"The house smells amazing," I say as we all step inside. The scent of turkey, gravy, and stuffing immediately fills my nose, warming my heart. That. That is what I think of when I think of home.

"Seems like you outdid yourself this year, Mom," Bridge comments, moving swiftly to the kitchen.

"Hey, I helped, young lady!" her father, Sean, calls after her. But he's a little busy bringing our bags in through the front door. Which, well, whoops! I guess old habits die hard. As soon as I come home, even though I'm a fully functioning—well, mostly functioning—adult, I resume the role of dependent child when I cross state lines into Pennsylvania.

All five of us wander into the kitchen, taking our usual places around the snacks set up on the table, munching but trying not to get too full. Bridge's mom stands at attention over the burners and the oven, circling the kitchen like a hawk, keeping an eye on all the dishes still being prepared. And I can't help but be reminded of Ollie, who looks so much like his mother. Same dark brown hair. Same bright turquoise eyes. Same love of the kitchen. And then there's Bridge and her dad, the two redheads reaching for the same snacks at the same time. Well, and then you have my mom and me. We used to be completely different—she was loud where I was quiet, confident where I was shy, popular where I was nerdy. But after the divorce, something shifted, and now she's more like me, sitting in her chair, happy to listen while everyone else speaks.

"So, how's living with your brother going? I'm amazed you haven’t killed each other yet," Mr. McDonough asks between crackers.

Bridge just rolls her eyes, following his hand to the cheese plate and letting him cut her a slice. "God, he's so overprotective. I feel like I haven’t had a date in months."

"Good," her father murmurs. "That's exactly how he should be."

"Dad," Bridge whines, lifting her brows at him while she bites into her cracker. And then mutters, "Yeah, well, say that to Skye's boyfriend cause Ollie almost got in a fight with him."

Bridge!

I widen my eyes, glaring at her. But it's too late. The damage is done.

"You have a boyfriend?" my mom says, shocked.

"Ollie almost hit him?" Mrs. McDonough calls from the other side of kitchen.

"Sorry," Bridge mouths in my direction, cringing. It’s not really her fault. I forgot to tell her my mom doesn’t know that much about Patrick. Stupid, stupid mistake.

"Um," I say, and then swallow, hoping everyone else didn’t hear that resounding gulp. "Well, Mom, I've mentioned Patrick to you before, I told you we went on a few dates."

"You didn’t tell me he was your boyfriend." And yes, there is an undercurrent of accusation in her tone. Not that I blame her—I always tell her everything. Well, almost always…

"Haven't you been reading Skye's—" I kick Bridge under the table, cutting her off. And she coughs, face burning red, glaring at me this time.

Oh, right, I probably should've mentioned that I never told my mother about the style section or the, uh, sex column. She may think that I got hired full-time for the book review section, but, well, can you really blame me? Who wants their mother to read all about their dating life every week? Especially mine, which is half-fabricated with frisky details that are utterly false. I mean, do you really think my mom would believe me if I told her those more suggestive elements of my column are complete fiction? That Bridge helps me write them? Uh, yeah, she'd just think I was trying to pull a fast one. Heck, I'm pretty sure I've convinced most of New York that I have a raging sex life, why wouldn’t my mom think the same?

Yeah… don't want to go there…

"Skye's what?" my mom asks, eyes narrowing.

"My blog," I interject before Bridge has to say anything else. She looks relieved. "I was, um, writing a blog about life in New York, but then work got a little too hectic and I decided to delete it. No big deal."

"Well, I wish you'd told me. I love to read your writing…" She trails off, a little dejected.

Crap.

Now I feel guilty.

"I'm sorry, Mom, really. I would have told you, but it didn’t really seem like something worth telling. Anyway, yes, Patrick is officially my boyfriend, so now you know that. And it only happened yesterday, so it's not like I was keeping a secret from you." A little white lie never hurt anybody, right?

"When did Oliver try to hit him?" Mrs. McDonough asks, and something about the way she says Oliver makes me a little nervous. It's that whole full name thing. Parents only say full names when you’re about to get in trouble. It's like an unwritten rule.

"Bridge is just exaggerating," I say, keeping my voice light. "You know how she loves to dramatize a boring story."

"Hey," she calls, defending her honor.

But the protest is sort of undermined when her mom chimes in with, "Oh, yes, well that's our Bridget. But I'll give Oliver a good talking to if you need me to."

"No, really, nothing happened."

She goes back to mashing the potatoes. Thank god.

Phew. That was close. Subject change needed immediately. "Hey, Bridge, why don't you tell everyone about the gallery opening."

"Ooh!" She sits up, spitting some cracker crumble out. "It was so cool."

"Swallow, kid," her dad teases, receiving another exasperated eye roll from his daughter.

I sit back, off the hot seat for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. But the longer I tune out the conversation, the more I notice the tingle of anxiety still funneling through my veins, the slight discomfort, as though something just isn't right.

My mom must notice, because she leans over and nudges me with her shoulder. "Come on, I have something for you in the car."

We excuse ourselves and I follow her outside, hugging my arms around my midsection to fight the cool air. "What's going on, Mom?"

"Nothing, sweetie," she says, and I can't help but notice that like her daughter often does, my mother didn’t really think this plan through. We're standing in the cold, teeth chattering just a little. Not exactly the ideal place to have a heart to heart. She nudges her head in the direction of her SUV. "Come on, get in for a minute."

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"So, where's this mysterious thing you have for me in the car." I raise one eyebrow in her direction.

"You know, you're a terrible liar for a reason. Me." But then she grows quiet, and I know exactly why. I must get my terrible lying ability from her, because we both know my father was a pro. Then again, the whole virgin sex columnist thing is pretty under-wraps. So, maybe I'm more like my dad than I care to realize…

Ugh.

Don't want to follow that line of thinking.

My mom interrupts, reaching out for my hand. "You just seem a little down, I thought we could come outside in case there is anything you want to talk to me about."

Hmm…let's see. Things I would love to say to my mom. Yeah, I've racked up quite a few of those. But for some reason, nothing comes to my lips. I've had so long to talk to her about Ollie, about my job, heck even about the good stuff like Patrick. I'm just not really sure where to even begin. And I don't know why now, after a few weeks of pure bliss, my mood has tanked. "No, Mom. Really, I'm just a little tired."

"Nothing with Patrick…"

"No, he's practically prince charming. So sweet to me."

"But?"

I bite my lip. Is there a but at the end of the sentence? He's perfect. That's the truth. I smile, glancing up from the dashboard to meet her warm gray-blue eyes—something I definitely got from her. "No buts. We're happy together."

"Good." She nods, accepting my response. But I can tell something is still bothering her, something she comes really close to saying. But then she shakes her head a little, and shrugs. "Come on, let's get back inside. Dinner is almost ready."

I nod, but I suddenly find I can't speak.

I'm staring at the tree in the McDonough's front yard, and a memory pushes its way to the front of my thoughts. Bridge, Ollie, and I are playing in the shade of the leaf-filled maple. Ollie keeps stealing our dolls and tossing them away, so to get rid of him, Bridge and I bet that he can't climb all the way to the top of the tree. He tries, obviously, like any obstinate little boy, and then proceeds to fall about twelve feet to the ground, breaking his leg. I still remember the fear that enveloped my entire being as Mrs. McDonough ran outside, hearing her son cry.

But in real time, my mom has already gotten out of the car and she's staring at me from the front of the walk with furrowed brows, wondering what's keeping me. I shake my head, clearing the memory away and hop out, stepping quickly to her side.

"Sorry," I murmur.

But then my eyes drift to the driveway and I'm pulled back into the past again. Bridge and I are sitting next to a bucket of chalk, carefully covering the pavement in pastel flowers and hearts. We don't even see him coming. All of a sudden, water drenches us from above, soaking our T-shirts, and washing all of our hard work away. Bridge immediately goes on the assault, smacking her brother, but he's prepared with a water gun and chases us around for the next twenty minutes. Until we find the hose and absolutely destroy him.

"Skylar?" my mom asks.

I blink and our child selves disappear, the driveway is empty except for two cars. Then I realize I'm grinning and laugh a little, releasing the energy.

"You sure you're okay?" my mom asks.

I nod.

We walk up the path and slip through the front door. But as we pass by, my fingers reach out, running over the pane of a glass window, remembering a day that happened fifteen years ago, and my gaze returns to the yard. Ollie is teaching Bridge and me how to play baseball, but he's showing off and throwing really hard fastballs that we have no hope of hitting. His dad tries telling him to cool it, calling Ollie slugger. But he won't. And then it's my turn at bat and I swing, actually closing my eyes because I'm so afraid of the ball. The smack reverberates up my entire arm, shaking my whole body, and I hear the crash of glass before I even open my eyes. I think that was the first time I distinctly remember hearing an adult curse. The whole window shattered, sending glass everywhere. Of course, the three of us ended up running to the backyard, giggling, while their father continued shouting curses in the front yard.

And suddenly I realize what's happening.

Why I feel off.

It's this house. It's these memories. It's Ollie. Spending so much time with him. Seeing him again. Being so confused by him again. Right now, standing outside the McDonough house, I'm closer than I've ever been to reliving that night—the one that happened four years ago, the one I've been trying to forget ever since.

I walk inside the house.

"Where are you going?" my mom calls to me.

I'm marching up the steps. I didn’t even realize I'd stopped following her, but I'm already halfway to the second floor.

"Just using the bathroom," I murmur and keep moving.

Part of me wants to stop. But I have no control. My body is moving on its own, it's taken control. My heart isn't ready, but every other part of me is screaming that it's time. Time to go back. Panic mounts underneath my skin as a sea of memories part, exposing the barren landscape of all the hardships I've buried deep below. Once tightly packed sand is now soft enough to slip through my fingers, revealing what rests beneath.

And then I'm there.

The door still has a sign that reads, Oliver's Room! Keep Out!

And I have. I've walked past this sign a dozen times. I've heeded the rules for four years. I've denied everything. I've tried to forget. But I can't.

My fingers stretch for the knob. They turn.

No.

I shake my head.

No.

But as soon as the door swings open, the world stops. The water rushes forward. And I can't move as the memory crashes over me, taking my breath away.

 

I bet by now you're wondering what happened with Ollie four years ago. Well, I guess I can't ignore it any longer. It was the night before Bridge and I were leaving for college, the night of our last high school party, the night before Ollie was leaving for another year at culinary school. And, well, here. You'll see…

 

 

"I can't believe you guys got so drunk tonight," Ollie murmurs from the driver's seat, running a hand through his hair. I'm mesmerized by the way the moon bounces off each strand, flickering from shadow to spark so quickly. But Ollie keeps his eyes on the road, just shaking his head in our direction.

"We're not that bad," Bridge mumbles, and even in my slight haze, I hear the slur to her words. Well, and then she convulses into a fit of giggles, undermining her argument just a little.

Ollie looks to the side, rolling his eyes at his sister. I don't realize I'm staring at him in the rearview mirror until his gaze flicks toward mine, grinning, but then he looks back to the road. A thrill spikes down my chest, burning from how much I want him. From how much I've always wanted him. But the fire is made painful from his oblivion.

Tonight.

Tonight.

I've been telling myself for the past three hours, with every sip of beer, with every ounce of liquid courage—tonight. I have to tell Ollie how I feel. I have to. Because tomorrow I leave for college and who knows when I'll see him again. Desire coils in my stomach, a stiff bundle of nerves—one that's been there for way too long. And it consumes me. I can't think when he's home. I can't think when he's away at school. Every time I even talk to another boy, a sour taste taints my tongue, a little voice whispers, sure he's nice, but he's not Ollie.

I have to tell someone. And I can't tell Bridge. So it has to be him.

My head falls back, heavy from the alcohol, and I let my gaze slip out the window, tearing my eyes away from the reflection I've practically memorized—the face that stars in my dreams. My heart is pounding. But I have to. Tonight.

"You guys are going to be so miserable tomorrow," he teases, "arriving for your first day at school with a hangover. God, the car ride is going to suck."

"Ollie…" Bridge whines. "Turn on the music, I want to be loud for a little while longer."

He sighs. The sound makes me shiver. But then the music takes my attention away. Bridge leans forward, fumbling with the buttons, twisting the knob to an almost deafening level. She jumps in her seat, bopping with the beat, singing. But I keep staring at the darkness, watching shadowy shapes creep by. Pop music wraps around us, cocooning the car in notes and tones and crescendos vastly different from the silence beyond these doors.

And then it's gone.

Disappeared.

I blink my blurry eyes, realizing we've reached Bridget's house.

Ollie deftly hops out, circling to his sister's door. Ignoring him, Bridge slides out, wobbly on her high heels, teetering before Ollie grabs her around the waist, holding her upright.

"You coming, Skye?" he teases, glancing over his shoulder to where I'm still waiting in the car. He holds out his free arm, offering it to me. "Come on."

My breath hitches as I slip against his chest and the warmth of Ollie's body curls into my side. I'm hyperaware of the position his palm secures against my stomach, of the pressure he uses to help me walk, of the attention he gives. I trip over my own feet. He clutches me tighter, making my heart flutter even faster, a hummingbird alive in my chest. I can't focus on anything except for the fact that he's touching me, can't think beyond the sensation of his fingers grazing the bare skin just above my jeans.

"You know, I thought better of you, Skye."

I look up, struck dumb by the twinkle in his moonlit eyes. "Wh—what?"

"I knew Bridge would get bombed as soon as I saw you guys sneak out for the party. But you? I thought you were supposed to be her good influence."

I smile, biting my lip. It's the only response I can muster because my eyes sink down to his lips, stuck.

"I'm not that drunk!" Bridge cries, tearing out of Ollie's hands to race up the walk.

"Shh!" he hisses. "Do you want to wake up Mom and Dad?"

Bridge responds by throwing out her arms, twirling around, faster and faster.

"Stay," Ollie orders, pointing at me before turning. I obey, standing still, swaying just a little with the wind, or maybe, well, with the booze. A few steps later and he's there, catching his sister as she loses her balance, crashing to the ground. Bridge yelps and Ollie rushes to cover her mouth, holding the shout in, sighing heavily.

"How do you get away with this when I'm not around to shut you up?" he murmurs, shaking his head.

Me.

I want to tell him, but I can't find my voice. I'm always the sober one, the designated driver, the responsible one. But not tonight. Because tonight, I'm on a mission.

"Come on, Skye," he whispers, gesturing for me to walk over.

I take each step slower than the last, one foot in front of the other, holding my arms out for balance. When I close the gap, Ollie puts his arm around me again, carrying both Bridge and me to the door, easing us inside and plopping us down on the steps in the front hallway.

"Wait here." And then he disappears, only to return a few minutes later with two full glasses of water and two pieces of bread. "Drink and eat this now."

Bridge and I listen. Something about the quietness of the house calms her rebellious mood. I gulp down the water, throat dry from all the words I want to say. When we're done, he leans down, holding us by our waists again, taking each step one at a time as we climb achingly slow to the second floor of the house. A few minutes later, and Ollie releases us at the edge of Bridget's bedroom.

"If you think you're going to be sick, knock on my door, okay?"

I nod, biting my lip.

He walks away, disappearing into the dark hall.

"Ollie!" I whisper.

He stops, turns. "Yeah?"

Say it!

Say it!

But Bridge is by my side, hanging on my arm, dropping her head against my shoulder, already sleepy.

Say it!

I open my mouth, chest clamped by an invisible hand. I'm trembling.

"I—"

All the courage leaves my body in a whoosh, leaving my limbs heavy with failure. I'm not strong enough. Not brave enough. I'm…nothing. The invisible girl with invisible dreams and not enough nerve to reach out and grab them.

"Thanks," I mumble.

Ollie grins. "Any time. Now please help put my sister to sleep before she passes out on the carpet."

I nod.

He's gone.

Bridge is practically snoring into my ear, so I hold her, stumbling for the bed, tripping so we both collapse onto the mattress in a heap. Only half awake, Bridge crawls to her side of the bed, rolling under the covers. But I stay where I am, staring at the stars twinkling on the ceiling, stickers I've wished upon more times than I can count. The neon green mocks me, an illusion of everything I could have if I only tried.

"Skye," Bridge whispers beside me. "We're going to college tomorrow."

"I know," I tell her, finally turning away from the ceiling, joining her under the covers.

"College," she sighs, blissful.

College. But my heart sinks with the idea. College. Where I'll still be pining after Ollie. College. Where I'll be haunted by the what ifs of tonight. College. Where every boy will continue to fail to measure up to the crush I've glorified in my head.

I've run through what will happen if I tell him a thousand times. Shock and desperation, the gentle let down, the way he'll never look at me the same. But at least then I'll know there's no chance. I'll know he'll never see me that way. I'll know it's hopeless. I'll get over it. I'll be done. I want so much to be done. I want so much for the constant ache to disappear. For the pining to go away.

My eyes shoot open.

I have to do this.

I have to.

Bridge snores beside me, and I almost hear the word go in the rumble—an urging for me to leave, to go, to find answers.

I listen.

Quietly, I drop my feet to the floor, ease off the bed, and walk to the door. The knob clicks when I turn it, making my pulse jump, but I press forward, tiptoeing across the carpet. And then I stop, my hand an inch away from his door, hovering.

I bite my lower lip.

Close my eyes.

Breathe. Inhale—one, two, three. Hold. Exhale—one, two, three.

My chest burns with nerves, with fear. My hands tremble. But if there's one thing worse than fear, it's regret. And I know if I don't find the courage to walk through this door, I'll never stop thinking about what could have happened if I did. My fingers twitch. Everything in my body pauses, stuck in this moment, in this decision.

And then in a rush it happens.

I open the door, step inside, and close it behind me.

"Hello?" a sleepy voice asks, followed by the movement of rustling sheets. The light clicks on, bright against the dark. And I feel caught. Trapped. "Skye? Are you okay? Is Bridget?"

"Yeah," I murmur, suddenly unsure, antsy as my hands wring in and out, pulling my skin tight.

He gives me a confused look, made all the more adorable by the disarray of his hair. And then the corner of his mouth lifts. "Did you walk in here by accident coming back from the bathroom or something? Are you that drunk?"

I just shake my head.

My throat is caught with indecision, clogged by trepidation.

Ollie sighs and rolls off his bed, somehow graceful as he lands on his feet in one swift move. Then he's walking toward me. Each step echoes against my heart, one heavy thud after another. "Come on, I'll take you back over to Bridget's room."

He places his hand on my arm, guiding me gently to the door.

"Oh, Skye, I can't wait to see your face tomorrow morning when the hazy memory of tonight returns. Mortification is such a good look on you."

He reaches for the knob.

"Ollie."

He doesn't react. He's twisting now.

I grab his fingers, holding them against the door, stopping him. And then I look up at the face that's only a few inches away from mine, drawing strength from the warmth of his hand, from the touch I so desperately crave.

"Ollie," I whisper.

He turns, meeting my gaze, looking down, enchanting me with those deep turquoise pools. But his expression is empty, unaware, not pining like mine. Not craving. My focus shifts to his lips, tantalizingly close, a distance that would be so easy to close if I weren't so afraid.

"Skye?" he murmurs.

I can't do this while we're touching, I can't think straight when his skin is pressed against mine. I can't think straight at all. My mind is running a hundred steps ahead of my body. What will he say? What will he do? Will he ever talk to me again? Will things ever be the same? Will Bridge find out? Will I lose them both?

The pressure beneath my skin mounts, boiling over. I'm a bubble about to burst. A volcano about to erupt. A bomb about to explode. My entire body tenses with anticipation. And I know Ollie must feel it, because his eyes narrow, growing more intense, more concerned. My ears buzz, drowning out the world, growing louder and louder.

And then everything stops.

I'm calm.

Clear.

Every ounce of fear evaporates for one split second, and in that second, I let go. "I'm in love with you," I whisper.

My heart surges forward, racing, thumping. But at the same time, I feel free.

I said it.

After so many years, I finally said it.

"You’re what?" he murmurs.

"I'm in love with you," I repeat, and this time all of the hesitation is gone. The secret is out. "I've been in love with you for my entire life, and I had to say something before I leave tomorrow. I don't expect anything from you, I just needed to say it, to have you hear it, so I can move on with my life."

And then I wait, running over every possible outcome in my mind. Ollie will reject me, of course. Maybe he'll say I'm too much like a little sister, that we've known each other for too long, that he's never thought of me that way, that we've always just been friends. He'll be kind, he'll be gentle, caring like he's always been to me. But no matter how he says it or what he does, it will all mean the same thing—no. No, I don't love you too. No, I don't like you like that. Just no. And even though my heart sinks just thinking about it, it’s okay. It's what I expect. It's what I need to hear to get over this—it's the whole reason I came to his room tonight, to hear the no I've imagined a million times in my dreams.

But he doesn't say no.

He doesn’t say anything.

He blinks.

And then he moves. Closer.

I can't breathe.

Ollie shifts his hand, lifting it from the doorknob, turning it so he brushes against my fingers. Those clear cerulean eyes hold mine enraptured. Butterflies flutter to life. Every rub of his thumb against my wrist sends fire up my arm. And then he leans down, led by his lips, closing the already small gap between our bodies.

My eyes shoot wide. I can’t move. Can't react. I've envisioned Ollie's response for years and never once did I let myself believe he might actually say yes. Might actually feel the same. Might actually—

Ollie kisses me.

And I can't think anymore.

In a rush, our bodies melt together. My hands run through his hair, slipping past each strand, holding the back of his head. His fingers draw a burning trail up my arm, setting fire to my skin as they come to a rest just below my jaw, drawing circles on the soft skin of my neck, driving me wild. His other arm molds to my back, holding me close, skin slipping beneath my shirt, sending a shiver up my spine.

And I want to ask what's happening. What this means. What he means.

But I can't.

His lips trail across my jaw, down to my neck, eliciting a little gasp of pure pleasure from my lips, and I admit to myself that if I'm dreaming, I don’t want to wake up. If this is a trick, I don’t ever want to know the truth. I want to stay here, in this moment, finally living everything I never dared hope could be real.

I let my fears go.

And everything moves fast forward.

Somehow, my shirt ends up on the floor, followed by my bra, and in a few moments I've gone farther with Ollie than I have ever gone with anyone before. We still don't speak. Everything is quiet, as though being pulled along by fate. No questions. No awkwardness. It’s just happening, smoother than anything I've experienced before. His skin feels made to touch mine, to hold mine, to caress mine. Ollie's shirt tumbles to the ground. My fingers trace the groove of muscles cutting into his chest, to his back, tracing the lines along his skin, exploring places I've only ever explored in my mind. All the while we're kissing, tasting.