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Sunny shakes his head gently as he places his forehead to mine. “Della.”

“What?”

“You can’t do shit like that to me, then start asking me questions like you’re collecting data.”

He grins, and so do I. “I can’t help myself. I do that when I want to understand something.”

His eyes meet mine. “I know.”

“Then, I don’t understand your objection.”

He laughs, but it comes out rougher than usual. “No objection. Fuck. Collect away.”

I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean it this way, but there is something incredibly freeing about getting his permission.

So, I do it again. Not exactly the same way, because repetition without variation is a poor experimental design. This time, I slide my fingers through his hair, first, watching his face as my nails scrape his scalp before I tighten my grip on his hair.

Sunny’s eyes shut. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, but his hips roll against mine.

That same fizz of arousal bubbles through me. “You definitely liked that.”

“Think I just like your hands on me in general. And you look way too pleased with yourself.”

“I enjoy learning what you like, Sunny. Just because you are way more experienced than I am doesn’t mean I can’t learn. I’m a real quick study.”

“That’s so hot, Dell,” he says, and before I can decide how to respond to that, his mouth is on my neck.

My head falls back against the wall as I give him more room to work his magic. His lips move slowly beneath my ear, then lower, and I try to figure out if there is some direct neurological pathway between the spot he’s licking and biting on my neck and every nerve ending below my waist.

I grind against his hard erection. The seam of our denim is in the way, but the tightening in my core suggests I could still get off like this if I wanted to.

“You’re not the only one who can deduce when things feel good, Indy,” he mutters.

He kisses the same place again, and my thighs tighten around him. Sunny stills for a second, then presses me even more firmly against the wall. There’s barely a hair’s breadth between us.

I’ve never been more aware of a man before in my entire life than I am of Sunny.

I’ve kissed men. I’ve had sex. But I don’t remember it ever feeling quite so participatory before. Which sounds ridiculous, because sex is inherently participatory if done correctly. And I definitely consented. But there’s a difference between being present for something versus being right inside the moment of it. When you let go of wondering whether you look strange, or sound strange, or whether your stomach is too soft, or if your hands are in the wrong place and just…feel it.

Sunny makes wanting feel uncomplicated. It doesn’t feel like a perfunctory series of steps that we can only spend a limited amount of time on. Four minutes of cunnilingus for me, and an equal four minutes of fellatio for you. Then, fingers. Then, sex. Missionary or on all fours, and the fear of missing your chance to orgasm because men seem to talk a good story about lasting, but they rarely seem to.

Sunny’s mouth finds mine, and I find myself kissing him greedily. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. I want his tongue against mine. I want his hands on me. I want to feel the hard planes of his body pressed up against me. I want to know what happens when I touch certain places on his body.

I want.

I guess that’s the summary.

I want. And apparently, I’m tired of pretending that I don’t, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that I’m happy and content with my studies. That I’m happy on my own.

But when I reach for the hem of his T-shirt, he puts me down. And all the heat and closeness I was enjoying slips out of reach. For one horrible second, I think I’ve done something wrong.

Then, he raises both arms.

“Oh,” I say as I realize.

His grin is wicked. “I thought you wanted this off.”

“I do.”