my side, the crook of my neck. I’m howling with laughter until I cry and beg him to stop. I haven’t laughed this hard in I can’t even remember how long. I finally get a breath in and he’s smiling, wide, his eyes are all happy and when he finally kisses me, it’s gentle and sweet. He hovers, his lips barely touching mine until I’m lifting off the bed for him, pulling his face to mine so I can slide my tongue into his mouth. He moans and now he’s really kissing me, leaning on his elbows over me, concentrating all of his attention on my lips as he licks them, then licks into my mouth.
Now I’m back in that other place, the awesome place. It feels a lot like being in the band cave with him, where we don’t need words to let the other know what’s going on inside. In the cave it’s all tone and feeling. Here it’s the sound of his breathing over me, into me, the sexy, hungry noises we make together because we just can’t help ourselves. It’s the feeling of his lips sliding over mine, the feel of his tongue as he slips it into my mouth again, tasting hazelnut coffee and whatever else I taste like when I want to get fucked, because I want it. Right now. And he knows it.
He’s known it all along, I’m sure.
I could do this all day, all night, all week, except it’s making me ache fiercely between my legs and he hasn’t gone there yet. I’m hoping he’s going to move his hand up under my shirt, touch me, move things along, but he’s taking it so slow. It doesn’t dawn on me that he’s just being careful—he doesn’t want to spook me again. I’m not here for slow, though, so I climb on top of him and his hard dick is all the invitation I need to take my pants off. He groans when I climb back over him and kneel there in nothing but black lace panties (because I definitely planned ahead this time), candy-striped kneesocks, and his favorite Pixies tank. And no bra, of course.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Emmylou,” he says as he runs his hands over my ass. His thumb hooks the waistband of my panties like he might yank them down but he just keeps it there. I feel his other hand sliding up the back of my thigh, under the fabric and he rests it on my ass, sweeping his thumb across my skin. Now we’re getting somewhere.
I lean down and kiss him again, feel him run his hands up my back, under my tank. I start licking and kissing his neck. I love the clean smell of it, the long and smooth contours. When I put my mouth on it, he breathes even harder and grips my ass with both hands, pulls me down right onto his dick and God, he feels so, so, so, so, so, so good. I start to suck on his neck, just like I’ve been wanting to suck on every part of him. I keep sucking right in the same spot, running my tongue over it, scraping my teeth as he’s holding me and rocking into me and I suck harder and harder and think, Oh shit, he’s going to be pissed when he sees what I’ve done. It’s March and as far as I know, Travis doesn’t even own a turtleneck.
“Emmy . . .” he says in this accusatory tone. “You did not just give me a hickey, did you?”
When I giggle and don’t answer he rolls me off of him, gets up, and walks over to the full-length mirror on the closet door. I follow him over and we both see this big, bright red-and-purple bruise right on the front—the front!—of his very pale neck. He looks like he fell down the stairs. I didn’t realize it would be so big, but I’m actually sort of impressed with myself.
“Emmylou!” he yells at me. “What are you, thirteen?”
I stand there and shrug like I’m thirteen, basically.
“You did this on purpose?”
“No, not really?”
“You totally did this to get back at Millie, I can’t believe you.”
I don’t even realize this is true until he says it. Then I feel sort of bad because I really want to laugh but I can’t tell if he’s actually angry or not. Then I just laugh because I can’t even help myself.