to Alaska and he’d be staying here, and it’d be a one-night stand. A hookup. And I’d been promising myself since I was sixteen that my first time would not be a hookup…which is why I’m still a virgin at almost twenty-one.
So far, no one has captured my attention, let alone my physical desire.
But Rhys…
The man had both, and it was a problem, because it was the worst possible timing.
Deep down, I knew Leighton and Jillie were probably right about me not coming back to Connecticut. I wasn’t ready to admit it just yet, but I could feel the truth of it percolating deep down, where you just know things that you can’t quite formulate into words, or even coherent thoughts.
I lay back on the pull-out, on top of the blankets, and stared at the ceiling.
My thoughts, dizzied by the smoke, circled and floated and wafted as I drifted toward sleep—and when I did fall asleep, my dreams were all of Rhys.
And they were all…decidedly naughty.
And I enjoyed every single one.
Even the one where he was seconds from putting himself inside me and I told him I was a virgin, and things got awkward. I woke up from that one, panicking, knowing I couldn’t let anything happen between us because having to admit to him that I was a virgin would be mortifying beyond belief.
So…nope. Nothing was happening here.
I’d go to Alaska as planned, and would arrive in Alaska a virgin. Rhys would not be deflowering me.
I made myself a vow, promising myself I wouldn’t let him or anyone else have my virginity right now. I just needed to get to Alaska. That’s all I had to do.
Simple, right?
Rhys
I got no sleep that night. I lay awake on the bed, listening to the soft breathing and occasional snorts and snores from Torie. Again and again, my idiot sex-obsessed brain conjured up images of Torie.
The moment she took off her sweatshirt, in particular, was etched indelibly on my brain. Every inch of her upper torso had been all but visible beneath her wet T-shirt.
Being a heterosexual male without a significant other, or regular access to sex, I had, of course, spent maybe more time than necessary online looking at photos and videos of nude and partially nude women…and, ironically, a wet T-shirt was one of my favorite things. And good god did Torie fulfill that particular fantasy for me. I mean shit, the way her tits sloped downward before tilting up and the plump thick long nipples? Small in size, perhaps, but perfect in shape. And I’ve always just personally liked smaller breasts. Call me weird if you want, but it’s my thing.
And hers are…just fuckin’ perfect.
In non-tit related news, I’d smoked pot.
It was fun, and I’d probably be willing to try it again, but it’s not something I could see myself getting obsessed with, or addicted to. It was nice to be able to turn my brain off, though, that was for sure.
Except it had also turned off my filters, and I’d said some shit I probably shouldn’t have.
For example, that I really wanted to see Torie naked.
I bet the rest of her body was just as perfect—slim, slender, tight. Her ass in those sweatpants was…crazy making. Taut and round and high, with mile-long legs and hips just curvy enough to make my dick hard every time I saw her from behind. If I could get just one look at her in the full nude, I’d probably come in my pants…like I had the first time Shania had touched me.
I hadn’t shared that particular detail. I’d been fourteen and had basically just discovered masturbation, which meant I was jerking off furiously every chance I got, and could summon the ability to ejaculate from the simplest of visual stimuli—like Shania on the roof of her trailer in a bikini, sunbathing. Or the partial glimpse I’d occasionally get of her through the bathroom window as she took a shower. I could see just enough to make out the outline of her tits, but couldn’t see her clearly, and it was enough to drive me fuckin’ nuts. Then, one day she’d shut off the TV, looked at me for a second, and had peeled off her shirt. She’d been wearing a bra, and I remember it in detail. White, lacy, pushup—which even at sixteen she hadn’t really needed, I realize looking back—it had clearly been a hand-me-down, stained, with sagging underwire and a safety pin holding one strap in place. She’d kept her