Gasp (Visions) - Lisa McMann Page 0,19

his neck and kiss him, run my tongue along his collarbone and my fingers up and down his sides under his shirt. He adjusts again and I grip the waist of his jeans and kiss him full on the mouth as he pushes against me, breathing hard. His hands pull me toward him and he searches with blind fingers for the clasp of my bra.

“It’s two hooks in the back,” I whisper, my lips against his ear. I don’t even know what I’m saying, only that I want him to succeed, I want him to touch me. He finds the clasp and wrestles with it until I help him, and then his hands are cupping my breasts and his hips are grinding, pushing up against me, and I feel mostly euphoric and a little scared as something deep inside me builds.

I rake in a breath and move my jeans against his, like I’m controlled by some other force of nature, and then Sawyer’s breath turns ragged and he wraps his arms around me and holds me to him, thrusting his hips and gripping mine, and I find his rhythm and try to match it, feeling weird about it but also wondering if this is a little bit like what it would be like if there weren’t any clothes between us. But I don’t want to stop and analyze that now.

Waves of lust rush through me and I want to be closer to him, touching him, my body becoming one with his body. I open a few buttons of my shirt, as much as I feel comfortable with, and press my chest against his, roll my hips with him, and I feel so beautiful and free. His breathing grows deeper, heavier, and it’s thrilling and scary all at the same time to watch him react to me in this way.

But then he buries his face in my shirt and gasps, “Oh. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, SHIT.” And then his torso jerks and shudders and his gasp turns into a low moan. “Oooh. Faaahck.”

I don’t know for sure what’s happening at first, but even though I’m not an anatomy expert, I think I have an idea. I ease back against the steering wheel and peer at him. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are closed and there’s a pained look on his face. “Shit,” he groans, and lets his head fall back against the seat. He brings his hand up to cover his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “God, Jules. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know that could . . . you know, happen, without actually, you know. Touching it.”

I bite my lip, not sure what to do now. Sawyer shifts and gingerly slides his hand into his jeans. He cringes. “Well, that’s awkward,” he mutters. I ease off his lap and back into my seat, twist my jeans back into place, turn aside, and hook my bra. My lips tingle. I button up my shirt. And I’m not exactly the Sahara Desert in my pants either.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about what just happened. Flattered? Disgusted? I definitely don’t feel disgusted. I feel . . . smarter. Like I’m beginning to figure things out. Applying book knowledge to real life, like Mr. Polselli says, except, ew, let’s not think about him right now. But I like knowing what happens. I like knowing how things work. Cause and effect. That’s probably weird, isn’t it? But I feel like if I understand what’s going on with this whole sex thing, I can figure out how much of it I want to take part in, and I can plan better.

I glance at Sawyer to see if he’s done doing whatever needed to be done. He’s buttoning up his shirt. And then, from his still reclined position, he lolls his head sideways and gives me a sheepish grin. “That was not in the plan,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He raises his seat back to an upright position. “So, um, basically,” he says, like he needs to explain, “I don’t know if you are aware of this, but being within, like, fifty feet of you makes me want to have sex with you pretty much all the time. I think that’s normal. And I guess even just the hotness and nearness of you combined with the amount of, um, friction and stimulation that occurred,” he continues in a scientific voice, his face flushing, “through no fewer than two hearty