Sheltered (8 page)

He said the last little bit in one big burst, as if he had to force it out of himself. And though it stung, in one way, in another she actually knew what he meant. She didn’t even have to struggle for it, or blindly guess.

He meant the thing she’d been feeling too.

“I don’t want you to be just my friend.”

It came out before she could stop it, and once it was done he seemed speechless. Caught, between one thing and another. She wasn’t disappointed, however, when he settled on a course of action.

He simply stepped forward and took her face in his hands, then kissed her. He kissed her and kissed her until suddenly she found herself sprawled on something, doing another thing she hardly had a name for.

She supposed the term for it was
making out
. They were making out on the couch, like the teenager she’d never actually been. But the thing was—it didn’t feel like something so small and simple.

It felt like something big, and all-consuming.

His mouth felt wet, so wet. And this time he didn’t hold back with the tongue. She felt it slide over hers, slippery and lewd and thrilling all at the same time, and had to fight to not do something crazy like freeze or squirm.

Either might suggest to him that he should stop. And if he stopped, she would just die, she would. It was without doubt the best thing that had ever happened to her, and not only because of the tongue and the softness of his mouth and his sudden greediness.

There was also his hand on something perfectly innocent, like her shoulder. Yeah—perfectly innocent, apart from the fact that he very obviously wanted it to be somewhere else. His thumb kept rubbing and rubbing at her there through the material of her jersey, as if he just needed to have a focus point. Something to distract him from going to the places he’d usually go to.

And there was something both frustrating and maddeningly arousing about that. His restraint made something burn low and deep in her belly, and then his mouth, oh God his mouth.

He tasted like cinnamon, again, and every now and then he’d pull away, just a little—just enough to make her want to drag him back. Before giving her a teasing lick with that perfect, curling tongue of his.

It set all the nerve endings in her upper lip on fire. She had to stop herself from reaching up and rubbing something like normal feeling back into the area, before the urge to writhe against him grew too strong.

Because it was getting pretty out of control. She hadn’t meant it, and suspected that he definitely hadn’t. He’d seemed averse to moving their suddenly passionate kiss to the couch, and had absolutely opposed anything like lying down.

But after a while they’d ended up like this anyway—the back of her head almost on the arm of the seat. His body over hers, solid and glorious. If she shifted just a little he’d be between her legs, and then what?

Oh God,
then
what?

“Evie, stop,” he said between kisses. She should have been relieved. She should have, but really all she could feel was the heavy and constant ache between her legs. How warm it made her feel, how daring.

And of course it only got worse when he said, “God, baby, you’re so
greedy
.”

It didn’t even humiliate her. Somehow he made it sound like the sweetest, sexiest compliment, and when she pushed a hand through his hair and tried to get him to kiss her again, his lips parted. A ripple seemed to go through his body, as though it affected him as strongly as it affected her.

And then he just went right back to those hot, wet kisses, only this time his hand slid down to her waist. His body shifted, until he was suddenly and actually between her legs.

Of course, there were many things between them still. His jeans, her voluminous skirt. A thing that felt like a cushion, trapped between her left thigh and his right. But something was different the moment he moved, and she knew it immediately.

For a start, a solid mass now seemed to be pressing right over the plump curve of her sex. And though rationally she knew it was absolutely not his erection, and equally understood that moving in any way constituted an immediate trip to hell, she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

It was like scratching an itch she’d had for nineteen years. It made her want to do insane things, like hook a leg over his hip and really go to town. But of course if she did that, he’d understand exactly what was going on. He’d be horrified, that she’d decided to rub herself on him like a complete and total whore, and no amount of
but it feels so amazing
would save her.

Even though it did, it totally did. It wasn’t like her own hand, or a pillow between her legs. He had her spread and exposed, just like in her dream, and that exposed place was rubbing and rubbing over the roughness of his jeans. The suggestion of his hard dick.

And all the while he was kissing and kissing her, that hand on her waist almost halfway up her rib cage now. Another inch or two and he’d be at her breast, and oh Lord she didn’t know what she’d do then.

She’d already gone mad, and he’d barely done anything. He wasn’t even moving—she was the one rocking against him like a maniac. And if her doing so made his kisses sloppier and more frantic, and if he made a sound after a second, well…

That was okay, wasn’t it? God, it felt okay. He made another sound—a more obvious one, this time, all rich and despairing—and she couldn’t help answering him. Her entire body seemed locked tight, all of these waves of sensation forcing their way through until said locks started to loosen.

She was losing her grip on herself, and knew it. Her hand wanted to go to
his
waist, and grasp there tightly. Her mouth wanted to stop kissing for just a second, to let out a breath that wouldn’t actually come. It wouldn’t come for so long a time that she feared unconsciousness was just around the corner, and then oh then it came.

She said his name, loudly, and didn’t care. It felt too good to care. The pleasure just rose inside her, jolting her entire body as it went. She had to squeeze his t-shirt into her fist just to keep herself steady, but even then she knew what an absolute embarrassment she was making of herself.

All they’d done was make out, and she’d started moaning and squirming beneath him, everything about her really obviously having an orgasm and absolutely nothing she could do about it. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to do anything about it.

It just didn’t compare to the kind of pleasure she’d given herself. It coiled in her stomach and made little sounds come out of her mouth, all hitching and gaspy and weird. Her body shook and shook with it, and when it was done she didn’t even have the wherewithal to check how disgusted he looked.

She simply had to lie there, limply, for a good long while. Hopefully he wouldn’t say anything about it.

“Did you seriously just come?”

Or you know, maybe he would just blurt something out.

She tried to keep the heat from rising up over her cheeks, but it proved extremely difficult. Her cheeks were already pink to begin with, and even if they hadn’t been he was on top of her, being all heavy and kind of like a radiator.

Plus when she finally dared to open her eyes, he seemed at best, incredulous.

“Jesus, honey. Is that all it takes?”

The blush was now starting to melt her face clean off. She tried to think of a word of protest—
I got a leg cramp, I sneezed really hard, sometimes I just forget to breathe properly
—but all of them seemed stupid. And besides, he had his hands on her face now. He had his hands on her face and he kept kissing her all slow and different and then after a moment she realized he was breathing shakily.

“Evie,” he said, and it sounded so good when he did. His voice was hoarse, and she suspected that maybe he was feeling some of the same things as her. In fact, she felt almost sure of it until he followed that one beautiful word with, “I’ve really got to go.”

And then it was that night she’d mauled him all over again. Only this time, she hadn’t mauled him. She’d
orgasmed
all over him, because of a
kiss
. Which just made her wonder whether or not he’d notice if she put a hand over her face.

“I know I keep doing this, but it’s just better this way. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not weirded out. I just…have to go. Right now.”

He pulled away from her too quickly, reaching for his bag before she’d even managed to sit herself up. And though he sounded sincere, though her mind kept throwing up the words
you make me crazy
, she could feel it eating at her.

She’d done something greedy again, and he was leaving. Again.

“Van—” she started, though in truth she didn’t know how she was going to finish. And luckily for her she didn’t have to, because as he turned—kind of awkwardly, with something of a stoop—she saw it loud and clear.

The rigid, obvious shape of something pressing into the material of his jeans.

It sent a visceral bolt of sensation through her—one that didn’t even seem dulled by the orgasm she’d just had. And once it was done it settled low and heavy in her already swollen and soaking sex, like a reminder of what she’d seen.

He’s hard. He’s hard, for you. It turned him on to see you climax so quickly and easily, and now he’s leaving before he does something he regrets.

Like forcing you to take his cock in your mouth.

Of course, she knew he’d never do anything like that—he was leaving because of his own arousal, for God’s sake. Yet the thought was almost as exciting as the sight of him, all insistent and rude right between his legs.

And then he caught her gaze, and his expression turned rueful, and she knew he knew.

“Yeah. That’s why I gotta go.”

She almost laughed, suddenly giddy.

“It’s really okay…”

He backed toward the door, that shape so obvious it looked like a promise.

“If we’re going to do this, Evie, we’re doing it slow.” He held up a hand. “I’ll see you next week.”

It was only after he’d gone that she realized something troubling…she wasn’t sure she could
wait
until next week. And even sweeter…she wasn’t sure he could either.

She realized she’d started jostling her leg up and down about halfway through breakfast, and stopped it just shy of her father noticing. Of course he’d ask if he spotted something like that—what on earth did she have to be anxious about, after all?

Only sinners and whores got anxious about things, and she was definitely not one of those two. She was the kind of girl who ate her breakfast calmly and politely, then cleared her mother’s and father’s plates, and once that was done she said something good, like, “Are you going to the Pattersons’ tonight?”

Her father didn’t seem to think it was good, however.

Instead he turned his slate-gray eyes on her, everything about him as neat as always. The red, red tie. The shirt with the starched collar and cuffs. He looked like someone out of a different era, she knew—like a dad from one of those scratchy 1950s videos on what not to do if you didn’t want to go to hell.

But he didn’t seem to know it.

“Don’t ask obvious questions, Eve. It makes you seem…idiotic,” he said, which was true enough. They always went to the Pattersons’ on Wednesdays, after all.

It was just that she didn’t always want to fuck some bike-riding, tattoo-covered drug abuser when they did.

“Sorry,” she said, like a reflex. Like that jostling of her leg, as she willed the day to fly by.
Go faster
, she thought, as she bore lasers into her father’s vast back.
Let it be seven o’clock already.

But still time ticked by as slow as a dripping tap, every event so gray and lifeless and endlessly long. Her father shaking her hand before leaving for work—the same as he did every morning. Her mother wanting her to help with the hydrangeas that needed planting, and as her mother seemed to be particularly dazed on this fine, sunny day, she couldn’t very well say no. Which was followed by classes on books that now bored her, and inane chit-chat in the cafeteria with Janie Lawson.

Janie was saving herself, apparently. She had the abstinence ring to prove it, just like that wholesome pop star with the curly hair. Of course it occurred to Evie then that every conversation she had with just about anyone sounded like something about three years too young for her. But what could she do?

Somehow she’d become perpetually trapped at sixteen. Forever surrounded by virginal rings and projects with her shaky mother and handshakes with her father, who alternated between finding her stupid and too clever.

By the time the end of her last class rolled around, she felt as though she’d been wrapped in clingfilm and left to suffocate. Janie Lawson’s face—so almost featureless and perfectly surrounded by blonde hair—made her want to punch, hard. Preferably something on Janie but she’d settle for something on anyone.

A wall would have done. A tree.

But of course if she did any of that, someone would notice. Always, someone would notice. They noticed when she sighed too heavily or wanted to talk about something other than wholesome books, and oh they would definitely notice if she kept jostling her leg up and down, like this.