Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,109
made me want more. Every touch felt so good, and I liked him so much.
I really liked him, and that was the strangest part of it all to me.
I put my lips near his ear and said, “Should we . . .”
Joe finished the sentence. “Get out of here?”
At the same time, with the same resolution, we both said, “YES.”
Twenty-Nine
Joe had my hand and we tried not to look like we were running for our horny lives as we bolted from the ballroom.
“Should we go for a drive?” he asked. “Someplace else?”
“I shouldn’t leave,” I said. “But maybe we can go somewhere in the building.” I saw a door and dragged him toward it. I opened it. It was a coat closet. “This okay?”
“It’s great,” Joe said.
I pulled him inside. I didn’t wait for him to make the first move—I made it, and pushed him up against the back wall of the closet. Neither of us kissed the other one first—we were synchronized as our lips met for the first time. The kiss was an avalanche, toppling out of each of us and pulling us together, like gravity. We were kissing and pressing and panting and my shoe got stuck in a fallen hanger and I slipped so he had to catch me before I hit the floor. We laughed, giggles that collided in the dark. Then, as I righted myself, I nearly elbowed him in the face. “Watch it, killer,” he said, before kissing me again, slower this time. I grabbed the back of his neck and he pressed a thumb under the narrow strap of my dress. We stumbled again, as a pair, and I had to put my hand on the wall to keep us upright.
I was only one minute in, but making out with someone I really liked—shoving old ladies’ coats out of the way, fumbling around in the dark, excited and laughing as our limbs and feet and hair tangled—wasn’t anything like the soft-lit love scenes I’d seen in most movies. It wasn’t like sex ed, either, where every step was like the instructions to assemble furniture. It was clumsy and messy, but also perfect and better.
The strap of my dress fell down and then part of my dress, and I started to pull it up, and Joe did, too, but his fingertips on my skin felt so good that I said, “No, leave it.” And my boob, not even my favorite one, was partly out. Joe trailed his hand down my collarbone and then down to my chest and when he touched me, I gasped.
I was so horny I thought I’d die. I tugged at his shirt and pulled it from his pants so I could touch his skin. We kept kissing the whole time, and as I ran my hands down his chest, I stopped at his pants and then, touching his belt, asked him, “May I?” like he’d asked me.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick, and he still had my breast in his hand and, as his thumb rolled over my nipple, a dizzying electricity surged through me. Between my legs I had the feeling of having to pee but not having to pee. As I unzipped Joe’s pants and let them drop to the floor, I hiked my dress up so that we were pressed together, underwear to underwear.
“I don’t think we should . . . ,” Joe started.
“We won’t,” I said, thinking, We won’t YET, as I moved against him. Joe was as excited as I was, but it was more obvious on him, and the friction as our fulcrums met, coupled with the kissing—Joe touching my face, swooping his fingers lightly down my cheek and across my jaw in a way that gave me happy chills—felt sensational.
There was nothing dignified about dry humping, but I didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable doing it with Joe. He was a good guy, like Bobby. Wait . . . why was I thinking about Bobby? Oh God, why could I not think about Bobby, just a little? Bobby driving me in his car, at his office, in the health food store, at the motel in Wisconsin—Joe kissed my neck, and I ground my hips harder against him. I was so close to coming that the added pressure was all I needed to tip me past the edge.
Then I was coming. Pleasure rolled over me in a wave as I uttered, “Oh my God, Bobby.”