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He blushes. “Yes. I do.”
We readjust so he can unbutton his jeans, and I pray mine will come off without too much tugging. When they do and I reposition myself on top of him, the reality sinks in: I am nearly naked with a boy who is much thinner than I am.
So I pull back on my heels, staring down at my breasts that are a little too big for this bra, my stomach that spills over the elastic band of my underwear. My thighs that are probably equivalent to one and a half of his. I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me, and in this moment, the not knowing is frightening.
“I…,” I start, unsure where to go from there. “I don’t know if I’m what you expected. I know—I know I’m big. I just don’t want that to be the only thing you’re thinking about when this is happening. I mean—I’m making it worse. Now of course you’re going to be thinking about it.”
He just looks at me, eyes filling with an emotion I can’t name but that bears a shocking resemblance to whatever’s blooming in my heart. “You are perfect,” he says, running his hands up my arms, over my shoulders, cupping my jaw. “So gorgeous, Barrett—every part of you. I’ve held myself back from saying it on at least a dozen different days. You are a thousand times better than anything I expected.”
It’s criminal, the way he’s able to undo me like that. I kiss him again and again, harder and faster until I’m certain he knows how much his words mean to me.
With Miles, I want the lights on.
Then his mouth is between my breasts while he struggles with the clasp of my bra until I reach back and help him. He treats every part of my body with both curiosity and care. Soft kisses and light touches until I indicate something feels good, and then he lingers. I’m much less anxious to shed my underwear, especially with his hand fluttering between my legs.
“Oh,” he says when he touches me. Somehow, the lightest sweep of a fingertip turns my whole world hazy. I close my eyes just as my heart leaps into my throat. “How does that feel?”
“Good—really good.” Then I grow more daring, moving his finger a bit higher. “But… this is even better.”
A shaky breath. A new rhythm. “Here? Like this?”
“Yes.”
His mouth joins his finger after asking if it’s okay, and I simply exit this earthly plane. I probably pant his name a hundred times, paint the ceiling with it as I grasp at his hair. Miles. Oh my god. Don’t stop. Deep inside me, something bright and shimmering builds and sparks and burns—until all at once, it bursts.
I return to earth with Miles kissing along my thighs, pausing to let out a surprised laugh. “I can’t believe…,” he says, voice trailing off.
“That I was that horny for you?”
This only makes him laugh more, but now I can tell he’s pleased with himself too. I’m overcome with the need to touch him, readjusting so I can splay a hand over his boxer briefs.
“Jesus,” he bites out, head falling back against the pillow. I grip him through his underwear and move my hand faster. Harder. It feels like a privilege to watch Miles unravel this way, to see him abandon all logic and just feel. Eyes shut. Breaths unsteady. And god, that groan. “Barrett. As incredible as this is, if you don’t stop, it’s going to be over in about five seconds.”
I withdraw my hand, grinning like he’s given me the very best compliment.
“This is deeply embarrassing,” he says, “but my parents gave me a giant box of condoms when I graduated high school. Just in case.”
“I don’t know if we need a giant box quite yet.”
A smirk. “There’s one in my wallet.” He hops up to retrieve it, kissing me long and deep when he returns to the bed.
The first time, I was so focused on feeling wanted. I was filling up some emptiness inside me, seeking validation. This time, it matters that he’s the one over me, under me. It matters, the way he kisses my neck and whispers my name and runs a reverent thumb along my cheekbone.
I don’t just feel wanted.
I feel adored.
It’s two in the morning, and we only have a few more hours before we’re whisked back to Seattle.
We’re sitting up in bed now, sheets pooled around our waists. I’m in just a T-shirt and Miles isn’t wearing one at all, which I’ve got to say is an excellent look for him. If the physics department ever puts out one of those firefighter-type calendars, he should be Mr. September.
“What are you going to do on Thursday?” I ask with my head against his shoulder. My hair is dry now, still messy, and even though I’m sure it’s tickling him, he doesn’t budge from this position.
“Go to my freshman seminar, I suppose. And my math class meets every day. You?”
“I’m going to pay so much attention in my psych class. Like, an unsettling amount of attention. I want the professor to be terrified of how good of a student I’ll be.”
He smiles at this. “I think they’ll be terrified of you regardless.”
