He’s on his knees behind me, I hear the condom package rip open, and I’m nothing but eager anticipation as I hear him roll the latex on. He leans over me again, I feel him against my back, his breath against my ear, his cock against the inside of my thigh and he pauses.
“Just promise you’re not going to freak out on me this time, Emmy,” he whispers. “I want this too, but I don’t want to freak you out again.”
“If you don’t put it in me now, you’re really going to see me freak out,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Pinky swear it,” he says, and hooks his pinky around mine and it feels silly yet is somehow the most intimate thing I’ve ever done. With anyone. It’s a gorgeous dissonant-chord harmony, two things that don’t necessarily feel like they would go together until they do and then they’re perfect. Like we’re these grown people about to get down in the secret treehouse where I played as a girl.
I don’t understand it yet, but this is exactly what love feels like.
“Okay, I swear,” I whisper.
Travis exhales into my neck and kisses behind my ear as he slides himself into me slowly from behind, gripping me around the waist and I am crying out, “Oh fuck, oh my God!” as he slides it all the way in. He pauses, holds himself there and it’s every bit as good as I remember. No, it isn’t, it’s better. It’s deeper from this angle and when he starts to move, it’s harder. Less careful, more sure. It’s familiar this time, and I never knew that familiar could ever mean better, but with Travis it does. I know how he feels inside of me the way I know the songs I write. My body remembers, and now it feels like it remembers him, too. Already.
Travis puts his hand on my lower back, and I know he’s looking at his name inked across my ass and it makes me even wetter. As he fucks me steady and hits me in the sweet spot, the one all the way deep inside of me sort of up and in the front, over and over and over at this angle, I feel like a star collapsing, waiting to go out in a brilliant explosion. Then I feel his hand between my legs, his fingers on my clit and there’s my gamma-ray moment. I scream so loud I don’t know if I have ever been that loud doing anything. I come and I come and I am shuddering in his arms as he’s struggling to hold back because I’m coming so hard.
“Jesus, oh, Jesus, Emmy Emmy Emmy,” he mutters into my back as he stops moving, gripping me tighter around the waist.
“Don’t stop,” I cry.
“I have to slow down or I’m going to lose it,” he says, panting. “I don’t want to come yet.”
Give him a hand, folks, because he doesn’t. He barely holds it together, but he hangs on. And I am impressed.
We fuck like this all afternoon. I let him violate me, desecrate me, penetrate me, complicate me for a good four hours. We don’t even do anything else but fuck. We don’t fondle, we don’t do oral, we don’t cuddle, and we don’t really talk. We don’t need to.
By the time I’m done fucking him, his room is no longer tidy, I’ll say that much. The textbooks are strewn all over the floor, notes scattered everywhere after he fucks me on the desk. After we do it on the bed in every conceivable position we can think of, we throw the pillows and comforter on the floor and get down and fuck like animals there, too.
When we’re finally out of condoms and I’m worried about his dick needing medical attention if I hop on it one more time, we curl up on the floor on top of the comforter (which definitely needs to go in the washing machine now) and he kisses me again.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Starving.”
“Let’s make grilled cheese,” he says.
And I don’t worry about anything being weird between us now that I’ve got a Travis Sharpie tattoo on my ass, because what could be weirder than that?
I pull on my pants and my tank top and throw his sweatshirt back on. He puts on his T-shirt and jeans and his hair is a mess, sticking up all funny in the front. I run my hands through it