the hell was I thinking letting some stoned athlete drag me off to his bedroom? Didn’t I read any of the campus safety literature when I was a freshman? (Seriously though, do people actually read those pamphlets?)
I’m sitting in the van in my seat behind him, watching his face in the mirror, and I don’t think he’s even mad at me now. Sonia is sitting in Cole’s seat and we’re cranking the new Radiohead (Baby’s got the bends!) on the stereo as we cruise the speed limit in sleepy Highland Park on our way to our house. Travis parks and Sonia hops out and I’m climbing out the side door when Travis stops me.
“Emmylou, wait a minute,” he says.
I look over my shoulder at him.
“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.
He smiles and cuts the engine and follows me inside. Jeff is hanging out on the couch with Adam and they’re watching Raising Arizona on VHS. They slide over and Adam pats the couch.
“Watch with us,” he says. “We just got started.”
Sonia flops down on the couch with the remainder of her fries, and I’m about to say no when I notice Travis is standing so close behind me I can feel him. I can feel the edge of his jacket brushing the back of my arm. I can feel his fingers brush mine and why are we still standing here in the living room again?
“I just watched it last week,” I say. “But thanks.”
“Sure thing, lovers,” Jeff says and then winks, and my heart is pounding as I take Travis by the hand and lead him upstairs to my bedroom.
I flip the light on and I’m barely able to get the door locked before Travis has my back up against it. He’s leaning on his elbow against the door, trapping me between it and all that Travis, glowering at me like I’m in serious trouble and I know I am because whatever he wants from me right now, he’s going to have it. I don’t even care. I’m fucking ravenous for Travis, craving him like a stoner craves Fat Cats at two a.m. Saturday night.
“I’m sorry I’m such an idiot,” I say.
“Yeah? How sorry?” he says.
I unbutton my jacket and drop it to the floor and when that doesn’t impress him, I pull my dress off over my head and stand there in my bra and panties and cowgirl boots. And now he’s impressed. He takes a step back and looks at me and the low hissing sound he makes suggests he approves of what he’s seeing. He backs me against the door again, fingering my bra strap as he speaks, his voice all sexy and gravelly.
“Tell me what happened back there at the party,” he says. “Did you let that asshole touch you?”
“No,” I can barely say because he’s kissing behind my ear and all I want is to feel him pressed against me, but aside from his lips to my neck, his hand pinning me to the door, he stays just out of my reach. Frustrated, I look him in the eye. “I didn’t let him touch me.”
“Why not?” he asks like a dare.
“Because he’s not you, all right?”
“That’s right,” he says. “But this is me, and now I’m going to touch you. Everywhere. All night.”
Oh, holy shit yes. Yes. Please, I hear whispered, and I’m not sure if I breathed it or said it or if it was only in my head. My skin feels hot when his fingers brush over my neck, under my chin as he kisses me, soft and slow, the top lip and then the bottom and then his tongue is there, between my lips and teasing into my mouth. He unhooks my bra, pulls it off my shoulders and drops it to the floor and for a minute he does nothing else but look at me. His eyes on my naked breasts, on the blush in my face, make me cower. I put my arms around his neck but he takes my wrists and pins them over my head with one hand while he traces his fingertip so slow and light down my nose. I laugh, but then he drags his index finger across my lips until they part, and he slides it in, over my tongue and gets it all wet and that’s not the only thing around here that’s wet now. Not by a long shot. He draws the tip of his finger lazily down my neck, down my chest,