Falling Into Us (17 page)

Should I touch him there?
Could
I? Dare I? I knew, again as an intellectual fact, what happened when you touched a guy there in the right way.
 

I pushed gently on Jason’s chest, and he lifted up, kneeling over me with one foot on the floor of the cab, the other knee between my thighs. I felt my breasts tugged to each side by gravity as I lay mostly naked to his gaze. My dress was bunched up above my hips and down beneath my ribs, my red boy-short panties exposed. I felt an embarrassing dampness down there, and I knew the cotton of my panties was soaking it up. I wondered, with a slight sense of mortification, if he could see that wetness, and what he thought of it.

Then I saw the front of his pants, a thick bulge at the zipper. Jason was blushing as I looked at him, and I realized he probably felt the same way about that obvious bulge. It was easy to tell myself that this was natural and normal, but it wasn’t so easy to erase the sense of embarrassment at another person seeing you like that. I felt vulnerable, so nearly naked in front of another person. Suddenly, the reality of what we were doing crashed down around me.
 

Should we stop?

But still, the part of me that was caught up in the daring, exhilarating rush didn’t want to. The part of me that liked Jason’s body, liked seeing his naked skin, liked
touching
his body and feeling him react—that part of me didn’t want to stop. I wanted to unbuckle his belt, like I’d seen on TV, and unzip his pants, flick open the button. I wanted to see all of him. I even wanted to touch him there. I wanted to. I wanted to see what it looked like when I kept touching him.
 

I wanted to go all the way with him.

But then my vulnerability kicked in, and the knowledge of what my parents would do if they knew what I was doing. Desire fought with vulnerability and a tortured sense of right and wrong. Was this wrong? How could it be? I knew I loved Jason. I was sure people would tell me I couldn’t understand what love really was since I was only sixteen, but I knew the feelings in my heart. I was attracted to the person inside Jason’s mind and heart, not just his body. I was in love with who he was. I wanted to be with him all the time. I wanted to help him, I hurt when he hurt, I was happy when he was happy.
 

Wasn’t that love?

And then, almost accidentally, Jason’s fingers brushed over my thigh and across the joining of my thighs, over my core, over my privates. I felt a bolt of lightning strike me at that grazing touch, and my breath caught, a thick lump in my throat and fire in my veins.

And then, not accidentally, he kissed me, and I was lost once again, all thoughts gone and wars of reason erased. His hand stopped on my stomach, low, just at the elastic of my low-cut panties. My fingernails traced down his chest and caught at the buckle of his belt. I felt his stomach retract from my touch, as if to make room for me touch him more.
 

His tongue scraping against my teeth and searching my mouth blasted away hesitation. Oh, god, I was going to touch him, and he was going to touch me. Oh, god.
 

This was okay. We were in love, and this was part of falling in love.

I tugged the end of the belt out of the loop on his pants and out of the buckle, flicked the prong away from the hole in the leather, and then loosened the belt entirely. He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving, his mouth next to my ear, his breathing harsh. His arm shook, and he switched hands, supporting himself with his other palm now. His fingers rested curled against the hot skin of my belly, his thumb brushing tiny circles on the cotton of my panties an inch above my privates. So close, yet so far.
 

Oh, god. I wanted this. I wanted to touch him more. I wanted more from him. This was so addicting, unstoppable.
 

The button popped open, and my thumb and forefinger tugged down the zipper. My gaze descended to the open fly of his pants, and I saw the tenting of his boxers, and a dot of dampness on the blue cotton. The wetness of desire, something we both had.
 

He was stone-still, his eyes on me, glancing at my breasts, then to my thighs and my panties and finally up to my eyes. He wanted this just as much as I did, but I also saw my own doubts reflected in his eyes. He shifted his weight slightly, and his pants drooped around his hips. I touched his waist near his stomach, meeting his eyes. My fingers curled under the gray elastic band, hesitated. My heart was a wild, tribal drum in my chest.
 

 
Jason’s fingers moved to one thigh, midway between hip and knee, and then journeyed slowly upward. I relaxed my legs, let my thighs spread apart a bit farther, and then his palm was against the soft, sensitive skin of my inner thigh, curling around the muscle there, his fingers pointing down. So close. I trembled all over, and as his hand moved ever closer to my core, I shivered harder, felt the dampness of desire grower wetter.
 

Our eyes were locked, exchanging permission, communicating need and desire and doubts.
 

“You want this?” he asked, his voice a whisper in the silence of the truck cab.

I nodded. “Yes. Do you?”

“Yes. But do think we should stop?”
 

“Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. Where do we stop? Where is too far? I don’t want to. I want to keep going. But I don’t…I don’t want us to regret going past a line we can’t take back.”

I didn’t let myself think about what I was going to say. I just blurted it out, stutters and all. “If w-we went all-all the way t-t-to-together…would you rrr-r-rr-regret it?”

My fingers were still curled around the elastic of his underwear, and his were flush against the hot, trembling skin of my thigh, not even half an inch from my wet center.
 

He shook his head. “I know I love you. I know I want to be with you, only you. I wouldn’t regret it. Would you?”

I shook my head. “No. No way.” I was so sure, I didn’t even stutter. “I know I love you, too.”

His hand dared closer, and now the tip of his thumb was exploring the crease of my privates through the damp cotton of my panties. I couldn’t breathe when he did that.
 

Then he stopped, and his eyes locked on mine. “We can’t go that far tonight, though,” he said. “We don’t have enough time, and I don’t want our first time to be in my truck.”

“Why n-not?” I tugged on his underwear, just a little. “It’s where we spend a lot of our time together, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but…” He seemed uncomfortable talking about it. “It should be special. In a bed, somewhere nice. And plus…we don’t have any…you know…things. Protection.” He whispered the last word in a barely audible voice.

I sighed. “Yeah, I know. You’re right. We should plan it out, then. Make it perfect.”

He nodded his agreement. “So what about this? Tonight?”
 

I swallowed hard. “Well, we’re not doing
that
, but we can…we can just spend more time together until I have to go, right?”

He seemed relieved, and glad. “Right. I mean, it’s not like it can accidentally just
happen
, right?”

I shook my head. “No. We’re making choices, together.” I felt grown-up, talking things through and making decisions about sex with my boyfriend.
 

He bent low to kiss me, and my knuckles pressed into the divot of his hips, where his muscles did that crazy V-cut thing. I kissed him with all I had, eyes closed, heart full. I loved Jason, I really did. It was an exciting thing to admit, to say, to feel, to know.

When we’d kissed each other breathless, Jason pulled away slightly, and his wide green eyes and parted lips drove me wild. He was so beautiful, so handsome, and I just loved him. I met his eyes as I pulled his boxer-briefs away from his body and slid them down his hips. His eyes went wide, and even his breathing stopped as he was bared to me.

Oh. Oh, holy shit.

I caught my lip between my teeth and drew my gaze away from his…I couldn’t even think of what word to use in my own mind…and met his gaze. He was nervous, slightly embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Was there a right way to touch him?
 

His chest swelled with an indrawn breath as I curled my fingers around him. Wow. Just…whoa. Such a complex mess of contradictions. Hard, soft, thick, springy under my fingers in places, taut skin in others. My hand was a dark tan against the pale almost-pink of his flesh there. I moved my fist down, and then back up, just wanting to touch all of him, and he gasped, jerked in my grip.

His eyes closed tight, and he tried to pull away from me. “Becca, oh, god. I’m—you should let go now.”

I was confused. “Why? Don’t—don’t you want me to touch you?”

He tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. “Yeah, I do. More than you know. But…if you don’t stop, I’ll…I’m gonna—I mean, I’ll make a mess.”

I blushed hard and nearly bit through my lip. Curiosity was a big part of my emotions at that point, along with wonder, amazement, nerves…too many things to name, all mixed up together. I liked touching him. I liked the way he seemed barely able to contain himself. Me touching him drove him crazy. I liked that.

I touched the top of him with my fingertip, and he groaned. Every muscle in his body was tensed, I could see that. I didn’t want to let go. I liked this. It was daring, it was unlike me, usually so careful and good and calm and reserved and following every little rule.
 

I closed my fingers around him again and slid my hand down his length, feeling every ridge and ripple of skin, watching his face contort and the veins in his forehead and neck and arms tense, feeling his abs tighten into rock. His arm gave out and he collapsed partially on top of me, and I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I really liked the way his weight felt on top of me. He was turned on his side, wedged between me and the seat back. His hips were level with mine, and he was gripping my hip, fingers curled into my flesh, his forehead against my shoulder. I waited until he was still, and then slid my hand up and back down. That motion seemed to drive him the most wild, his body bucking into my grip. And then he tensed even more, going entirely rigid.

“God, Becca. You don’t know—what you’re doing to me. How good that feels. You should stop before I—”

I shook my head, the only response I could make. I wasn’t going to stop. We’d gone too far to stop now. I wanted to see what would happen, and I wanted to make him feel good, as good as I’d felt when he kissed my breasts.
 

He lunged over me, grabbed a T-shirt that had been abandoned on the floor of the truck, a sweat-stained sleeveless black shirt. He shoved it between himself and my skin, my dress, and then groaned deep in his chest as I slowly plunged my fist around him. He jerked in my grip, shoved his hips up toward my hand. I slid my palm up his length, up around the top part of him.

“Oh…
shit
…” he breathed.

And then I felt him jerk, tremble, and spasm. Something hot and wet spilled over my fingers and onto the shirt, and I slid my hand around him, and his body clenched again, and another stream of white liquid left him. It was amazing to watch. His whole body reacted, and a look of utter ecstasy crossed his face as he moved into my touch, slick and wet now.
 

“Oh.” I heard the wonder in my voice. “That is messy.”

He laughed, his eyes closed and his face buried against the slope of my breast. “I told you. I’m sorry, I didn’t get it on your dress, did I?”

“Why are you sorry? I liked watching that happen. And no, I don’t think you did. It’s all over your shirt, though.”
 

He breathed, and his breath was hot against my skin. I ached somehow. Deep inside me, I felt a need I couldn’t express and didn’t understand. I’d touched myself down there, of course, but hadn’t ever really felt anything earthshaking like I’d heard the girls at school talking about.
 

 
He took the shirt, turned it inside out to wrap up the mess, then wiped himself and my fingers. He lifted up on his elbow, and his hand grazed along the elastic of my panties. I met his eyes and breathed out a long breath, as still now as he’d been. His eyes roamed over my breasts as he slid his fingers under the leg-band, and fire shot through me in anticipation as he moved over my skin and the soft patch of curls. I was embarrassed all over again. Would he mind the curls there? Should I—
 

All thoughts left me when his finger traced my opening. It was an awkward angle, and he slid his hand out. I nearly whimpered at the loss of his touch. It felt so good, just that little bit of contact. I wanted more. He slipped his fingers over my belly and under the waistband, and I lifted my hips into his touch. Oh, god. My underpants were stretched tight around his hand, tugging uncomfortably in certain places. I pushed at them, rolling them down my body, and Jason seemed to get the idea, helping me push them down and away. When they were near my knees, I had enough movement to spread my legs wider, feeling naughty for doing so, for wanting more of his touch on me…
in
me.
 

“Oh…god…” I could barely breathe when he touched me, feeling shivery and hot all over, but yet pulled taut and stretched like a wire about to snap. And he’d only brushed his finger down me. I arched my back and spread my knees, stretching my underwear and not caring. His fingers touched me, brushed, stroked, and I couldn’t even get enough air to gasp in surprise at how sensitive I was. It hadn’t felt this way when I touched myself. Something inside me felt huge and full of pressure, like a balloon about to pop.
 

The tip of one his fingers moved inward, and I actually moaned out loud, louder than when he’d touched my breast. He slid up a little, and I forced my eyes open, watching his finger white against my dusky skin as he touched me. It was his middle finger, long and delving farther in. Then he found the hard, sensitive nub of skin near the top of my privates—I was too embarrassed even mentally to think of sexual terms explicitly. I wasn’t sure if he knew it was there and how sensitive it was, or if he figured it out by my sharply indrawn breath and the sudden shift of my hips into his touch, but he focused his touch there.