“Whoa there, beautiful! You OK?” He grinned, holding me at arm's length, smiling, perfect teeth white and gleaming, lips so luscious I leaned in and kissed them before he could stop me. He kissed me right back, too. He was a full on kisser, no pecking or nibbling. Our lips collided and our tongues found each other with an incredible fury and passion. I was a frenzy of emotion. I had to know how he tasted, and apparently he did too because there was no resistance, only reciprocation.
When my senses returned, I pulled back, sucked the air in around me with a raised eyebrow in his direction, and felt light and heavy all at once. I had to save the memory; that one, I was sure, was going to be relived often. I looked at him a second longer, then sucked in my lips before speaking. “Sorry, I had to do that before I knew if you had a girlfriend in case I never had the chance again ...” I raised my eyebrows. He stood there smirking, staring, stunned, and silent. I didn't know what else to say so I tucked my head down, side-stepped him, and walked on, but looked back over my left shoulder in case he was looking so he would see my good side. Yep, he was staring at me! My breath came and went again.
He wanted me.
I nodded. “See you around,” I said. Permission to pursue granted.
Game on.
It was the only move I made; the rest was all reaction to him. He started flirting with me right after that. He was smooth; he had lots of practice. He made me think the game was mine. I think that's why his charm always worked so well. He met me after my classes and walked with me to my next. I blew off the hellos, flirtations, and wishful looks of the other girls we passed by. He was talking to me. I told myself he must be interested in me and me alone, but in Cole's game he could play lots of girls at the same time; I knew it, but I ignored it. He was too good to let go of. A couple days later he asked for my number and actually called. He kept it respectful at first, which was surprising when I found out how he really was. He wanted to see me that Friday. I said yes in a heartbeat, and knew I would not be making him ask either of my parents for permission.
He offered to pick me up, but I dodged it and made a plan to meet him at the mall. I begged Theo to take Brett and me to the mall. It was a perfect plan; Theo was in love with Kennedy by then and they could drop us off on their way to do whatever they wanted to do. Brett wanted to go hang out with friends, so I lied to them all and said I was going to watch a movie with my friend, but not that my friend was Cole. Cole had a different plan for the night. He took me for a ride in his stupid little Civic that was too low to the ground and we talked baseball. He was a sophomore, too, but was already on the varsity team because he was so good. He said he liked that I actually knew the game and didn't just fake it like some girls did. I told him I liked to play, too, with a wink. He got my meaning but read into it a whole lot more than I meant for him to. We went to his house. His mom and stepdad both worked late shifts; we were alone. As soon as he said it I knew why we were there. We had had only kissed but I was too far gone to call it quits. I wanted him and I convinced myself he wanted more than just my body and that we wouldn't do anything more than ... but I never told myself what we wouldn't do more than. I forgot to make my rules. I was putty in his hands no matter how hard I tried to think I wasn't.
His house was a lot bigger than our place on base but I could tell he wasn't rich either. I guessed correctly that he probably lived there most of his life. There was a growth chart marked out on the corner of the hallway wall; ours was a fold-up paper, one that could move when we did. Mom didn't even unpack it on the last move from North Carolina to Andrews. We were all almost full grown except for Trav.
“What do you wanna drink?” he asked, tossing his keys on a table by the door nonchalantly, like he had girls over all the time. Did he?
“Pepsi?”
He turned around to look at me and shook his head. “I mean drink, a real drink. We got Bud Light, or I can mix you something. Want a fuzzy navel?”
“What's that?”
“Orange juice, peach schnapps, and vodka. They're good ...” he smiled. Before that all I'd ever had were two beers once at a party with Theo a couple months before, but a special drink sounded more fun. “Sure, I'll try it.”
“All right, coming up. Get comfortable, pick a movie, if you want ... we are supposed to watch one you know.”
I smiled and looked at his DVD collection. Romance seemed way too obvious, besides I wasn't sure I wanted to watch a romance alone with him. If he was anything like my dad and brothers, an action movie would take him away from me for the rest of the night, so I settled on a happy medium, Romancing the Stone, which he still had on VCR. I put it in. It needed to be rewound so I pushed the button and made my way to his couch to wait. He brought the drinks out and handed me mine. It was in a tall glass. I took a couple big gulps; I don't know why. As soon as the taste settled I could tell it was strong. Either he sucked at mixing drinks or he was trying to get me drunk. I had to get back to the mall and meet my brothers. I knew they would cover for me, but I thought better about drinking the whole thing. After another little sip I set it on the coffee table.
“What do you think?” he asked, standing in front of me.
“Good,” I said. The player clicked, the movie was rewound. He reached for the remote and pushed play.
“Come here,” he said, making his first move before the previews even started. He took my hands and pulled me up toward him and went right in for the kiss. It tasted like beer but was otherwise brilliant. He cupped my face in both of his big hands; mine found his sides and noticed his physique, firm, strong. It was another full-on kiss, his mouth covered my lips, his tongue parted my lips and played with mine, all the way in and out, soft but sure of its movement. There was more to it this time. I realized I had caught him off guard in the hallway, shook up his game. He was on fire tonight. He was the best kind of kisser. I hated it when a guy barely did anything with his tongue. What was the point of a tongue kiss if it was this little flick in and out? We weren't lizards. I wanted to feel them inside me, searching me, making me tingle from head to toe. His got me tingling in no time. He was an expert, obviously.
“Mmmm, I like the way that tastes on you,” he said against my mouth, licking my lips gently before going back in for more. Then he moved on from my mouth, trailing kisses to the pillar of my neck. I jerked back as soon as he touched my scar; no one had ever touched it like that before; most guys tried to ignore it like the plague.
“Shhhh,” he cooed. “Don't worry, I won't leave any marks.” He thought I was worried about hickeys. He pushed his hips into mine and moved from side to side. He was hard against me and I knew from growing up around boys what that meant. I wasn't ready, it was all happening too fast, I barely knew him, but it felt so good; I didn't want him to stop. I was too far gone to say no. Drunk, not from the fuzzy navel, but off of the way I felt in his arms. I wanted him to touch me; I wanted to touch him back. Just like my dad promised I was too caught up to think straight. The problem was, it was our first date and I wasn't that kind of girl no matter what kind of a guy he was. It took everything in me but I had to stop him. “Ummmm, slow down, Turbo,” I said, pushing him back gently with both my palms on his chest. He looked at me desperately, kissed me again from a distance.
“Sorry, can't help myself; you're hot.” He nuzzled my nose, lowered his eyes, and nipped at my lips. “I want you. You know that?”
Of course I did. I had a little game in me. I tried to play back. I pushed into him for a second and giggled. “I can tell. But you're going to have to work a lot harder than that to get me.”
“I accept.” He looked at me hungrily. He wanted me and I didn't want to stop making out, but I didn't want to do “it.” I didn't know what I wanted except that I wanted the feelings inside me to continue. It was euphoric. I was on fire, but I fought hard for my pride's sake.
“Ummm, give it your best shot,” I said. “I'm not easy. You're not getting any tonight; besides, we've got a movie to watch.”
; “Really?” he asked, the challenge lighting a fire in his eyes. He kissed me again. At first it was slow and soft like before, enough to melt me, make my knees weak, and make me want to lean into him and feel him on me. Then his hands moved down my neck, not fast, slowly, waking up every inch of my body. When he moved them lower, over my breasts, he felt me stiffen, “Relax,” he whispered into my lips, “I'll behave.” And he let them slide around my sides. Warmth, electricity, invigoration.
Everything he did, everywhere he touched, all of it was connected and all of it wound up in a knot of energy in my lower abdomen. My body wanted Cole even if my head was telling me to slow down. The more his hands caressed me, the more moisture pooled between my legs. I had been wet before this. I asked my mom about it the first time it happened because I was afraid I had cancer or something (it was always cancer I thought I had). She took it as an opportunity to have a mini-talk on the mysteries of the feminine body. She assured me it was perfectly normal, like an unexpected erection for boys, even if it was annoying. She said lubrication was as essential for love-making as a hard-on was. Then she talked about when the right time to have sex would be. For her, like for my dad, that was supposed to be when I was married. We had that talk when I was twelve; marriage seemed like a good time for sex back then, but at fifteen, and completely turned on, I was ready for Cole right then and there. I didn't exactly want to have sex but I wondered how I would feel if his hands went under my shirt, and touched my bare skin, or went down my pants and found the proof of my arousal. That was about as far as I let any boy go before. Why was it different with Cole?
My parents always said sex was a good thing, and I was catching on quickly why they would say that, but I had to stop him. It was too soon; he was too smooth.
I pushed him down on the couch.
“We have a movie to watch, sir,” I said, straddling him.
“I'd rather watch you.”
“I'd rather watch the movie.”
I slid to the side, leaving one leg over his lap and turned to the TV. We made it through the previews, but the beginning of the movie was too hot for either of us to handle. He pulled me back over on top of him, reached his hands up into my hair and brought my lips down to his.
Cole was a boob man. Some guys like butts; he liked boobs, and his hands found their way quickly to mine and lingered there a long time, cupping them, caressing me through my shirt, before going lower. He trailed the curves of my waist, thumbs still further into my core, and it was his turn to stiffen and stop.
He opened his eyes and looked at me, impressed. “You got a six pack?” he asked.
“I don't know.” I smiled. “You better check.” I swear that was the stupidest thing I've said in my entire life. I don't know why I said it, like I didn't think that was an invitation to take my shirt off. I was trying to play a game I had no clue about. I was all worked up and out of control. My dad was right: my feelings confused me. It was too late; I was too far gone. He grabbed my shirt by its hem and pulled it up slowly.
“What are you doing?” I asked, scrunching my hands together at my side, stopping him momentarily.
“Checking you out.” He was undeterred. He kissed me again, and leaned his face to my ear and whispered, “Relax. Trust me,” he said, then moved away to pull my shirt up and off.
Trust him about what? Why would I need to trust him, and what did my trusting him have to do with my shirt coming off, and why did his voice soothe me like honey when he whispered? This time I relinquished. He eased my shirt up and I lifted my arms higher and higher. The air in the room was cold on my belly; goose bumps erupted all over my skin. He flung my shirt on the couch and leaned back on the couch to take me in. I posed for him. I understood. I liked to look at beautiful people and beautiful bodies, too. I wasn't vain but I knew I was flawless if he was into the fit, athletic type.
“I am going to have fun with you.”
“Not until I do first,” I said. I think I know now what he was expecting but that's not what I meant. I was trying to find a way to be in charge, not realizing I never had control of the game in the first place. I took his shirt off the same way he had mine. It was my turn to look. He was a thing of beauty. I grew up in a military family with parents committed to fitness. They made working out a priority. My dad and all of my brothers, except Trav, who was still growing into his form, were well-built and chiseled. Most of the men my dad knew, with very few exceptions, were in peak physical form. I was used to seeing beautiful bodies, but most of the boys my age were average. Cole was perfection and, like me, he knew it. His hands fell to my bra after I pulled his shirt off and my hands trailed down, down his fingers, the backs of his hands, his forearms. I gripped his biceps in my hands and found my way to the flesh of his chest and abs. I think I actually said, “Perfection,” out loud, or maybe he did; I can't quite remember.
When he tried to undo my bra, I got nervous again and turned to the door. “What if someone walks in?”
“No one will walk in. Trust me.” Trust him again.
“But what if they do?”
“No problem,” he said, sweeping me up in his arms before I knew what was happening. He carried me easily down the hall, kissing me the whole time, and pushed open the second door on the right. His room. Baseball paraphernalia was everywhere, and bikini pictures of girls lined the wall opposite his bed. I could only imagine how many times he looked at them while doing what boys did. Like Mom had done with me, Thomas and Theo explained the mysteries of the male body to Brett a few years before. They didn't care that I was in the room so I learned all about socks and mornings, and uncontrollable urges, and such.
His bed was made. Did he know that morning that he was going to try to sleep with me and that's why he made it? I didn't. I thought I was strong enough to call timeout if we got carried away. I already said no, but it wasn't convincing and he kept going, and I kept letting him. And then he was laying me down on his bed, getting on top of me, and straddling me. I let him take off my bra and unbutton my pants. If only he had been a clumsy lover or it didn't make me feel so good, but it did, and I didn't want him to stop. Before I knew what was going on we were naked and he was reaching for a condom. He had them in a drawer next to his bed. There was something wrong about that: we weren't even officially going out and they were right there, like an emergency preparedness kit, like he expected to have sex. I could have still backed out; I should have. It was my last chance and I knew it, but I was too far down the road. I couldn't turn around. I take that back. I could have, but I didn't. I was with a beautiful boy who knew all the right moves. We were close enough by then, why not go the rest of the way? We were two naked kids in bed together; there was only this one last thing left to do.
CHAPTER 4
WE DID IT.
It wasn't bad, but it wasn't what I wanted for my first time. I guess up until then I kind of imagined it on my wedding night, or on a blanket on the beach in the middle of the night with the moon and stars shining in the sky above me, or, I don't know, something special and romantic, but really, I never gave the moments leading up to it any thought and then, just like that, it was done and over with and I knew it wasn't how my first time should have been. That was when I couldn't back out. It was too late. I would never be a virgin again. He was a skillful lover because he had plenty of experience before me. He made sure I had an orgasm before he took his own; he wouldn't have won his game if he hadn't, but then it was done. No fireworks, no promises of a forever kind of love, nothing to make it special. It was just done.
My first time.
Cole Jackson; the first, the worst.
Despite the orgasm, the whole thing was very anti-climactic. When we were done he cuddled me for a while, kissing my neck and cheek while we spooned. I liked that, but he got bored and asked if I wanted to play a video game with him. When I said no he turned on his console and played without me. I felt like I was in the wrong kind of dream. Weren't we supposed to spend the rest of the night in each othe
r's arms? Or at least weren't we supposed to do something together that consisted of more than staring at a TV screen and driving imaginary cars? Or was I being too dramatic? My parents always said I was a passionate kind of person; that was their nice way of saying I made too much out of situations than they were worth.
I tried to tell myself to calm down. He was into me or he wouldn't have asked me out. I convinced myself I was expecting too much. This was not a romance novel; we were not star-crossed lovers. Neither of us was dying or moving a thousand miles away or anything tragic like that. He wasn't a vampire; I wasn't the hero of a ruined society. We were two ordinary kids that did it one Friday night—that was it.
Then the most horrible thought of my life struck me.
What if it was worse than plain and ordinary sex on a Friday night? What if it turned into a one-night stand or booty call? I didn't know him, he didn't know me. It was an accidental encounter in the hall and I had sex with him less than a week later. I couldn't be that kind of girl. I needed reassurance there would be more to us than this one night. I crept up behind him and wrapped my arms and legs around him, nuzzled his neck and kissed it.
“Hey there ...” he said, looking over his shoulder, kissing me quickly, before turning back to the screen. That was good: he acknowledged me in the middle of a game. That had to mean something.
“Hey,” I said into his neck, “Wanna go finish the movie?”
“Yeah, hang on a minute. Lemme finish this first,” he said.
A minute was more like fifteen, but eventually he obliged, finished his game, and took me back to the couch. We made it as far as the next sex scene before we started seriously fooling around again. By then my drink was gone, so much for not drinking it all. I didn't have anything left to lose. We did it again, only this time when he carried me down the hall my arms and legs were wrapped around him, holding us together while his hands worked feverishly to undo my bra. I'd like to think it was the alcohol that made me so easy, but I was desperate to keep him for more than one night, and I wanted him to keep me. When it was over he lay on top of me, satisfied and spent, not declaring his undying love, not promising forever, but he did say I was awesome and wanted me to be his girl. The biggest wave of relief flooded over me. Success! I would not be that girl. I laughed a little too dramatically and demanded his Letterman’s jacket, and then it would be a deal.
Catching Tatum Page 4