We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1)

by Daisy Prescott

  My fingers clenched in his soft hair, pulling, tugging, tethering me to him. I wanted to claw at his skin, leave behind marks. I needed to feel his flesh between my teeth. I had to touch all of him. If I didn’t, I might have imploded from sexual frustration.

  The door we’d exited opened, spilling noise from the bar into the quiet. A guy dumped a bag into the dumpster across the alley. If he saw us, we didn’t shock him enough to comment.

  Jason ducked his head into my neck, gently nipping the exposed skin. “I like this dress.”

  His kiss had disarmed me. I’d completely forgotten what I was wearing.

  “Most guys had a thing for Chrissy or even Janet on Three’s Company, but I find the one guy who had the hots for Mrs. Roper.”

  “Maybe she didn’t wear anything else underneath for easy access.” His hands drifted to my hips and bunched the fabric, slowly lifting it high enough so he could reach skin. “Are you naked underneath this?”

  I didn’t need to answer him when his fingertips skimmed along the edge of my underwear.

  “Ah, too bad.” He traced the border between skin and lace.

  “They come off,” I stated the obvious in a breathy plea.

  “I imagine they do.” The tip of his finger slipped underneath the material.

  I stopped breathing for a moment, letting the sensation of his touch roll over my skin. I bit my lip to stop a moan from escaping my mouth when he pressed himself against me. That was no lip balm. Nor was it a pack of Lifesavers or quarters.

  I trailed my hands down his arms, examining the biceps I’d been fascinated with for two months. They were as hard and sculpted as I’d imagined. I’d spent hours, days, and weeks fantasizing about them. Now I was touching him. I almost pinched myself to make sure it was real, but losing contact with him would’ve been a bad idea.

  Leaving a trail of small, open kisses along my jaw, he found his way back to my mouth. His kisses became softer, longer. The pent up frustration left him. We fell into a rhythm. Our mouths, his hips, my hips, his fingers exploring me synched into a singular experience. My entire body hummed with building anticipation. My breasts ached to be touched. Everything clamored and screamed for attention from him. He was every boy band member rolled into one and my body acted like his adoring, screaming fan.

  Instead of waiting for him to read my mind, I placed his hand over my nipple, pressing his flesh into mine so he could feel how he affected me. He responded by rolling the bud between his fingers, sending a fresh wave of electricity between my legs.

  I sought out a new, faster beat with more friction, more pressure. More something. I closed my eyes to concentrate on his touch. I’d never been touched like this, with such self-assurance and deliberate focus.

  “I will make you come right here, right now, if you ask nicely.” He nipped my ear lobe as his breath warmed my neck. “Or if you’re willing to delay your gratification, we could go back to my apartment.”

  Yes and yes, please? I could ask nicely. Or beg. I wasn’t above begging at this point. If he asked me to purr like a kitten, I would have. Anything to make him finish what he started.

  “Why not both?” I whispered, unable to focus on the thought of stopping the wave of pleasure about to crash over me. “I’m close.”

  “I know.”

  A shift of his fingers, a pinch of my nipple, and I fell into an abyss of sensation. Sweet goddess of orgasms and bliss. The man knew what he was doing.

  “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” ~ Sophie B. Hawkins

  “HOW DID YOU know I was close back there?” I sat in the passenger seat of his VW Rabbit on the drive north to Seattle.

  “Miss Elmore, you should be able to answer your own question. Did I teach you nothing about biology?”

  I thought about it for a second. “Tell me. It’ll be hotter coming from your mouth. I like it when you go all scientific.”

  He stretched his arm over the gearshift to rest his hand on my thigh. His fingers traced the pattern of my dress. “Your breath became shallow, your nipples engorged and extended, a flush bloomed on your chest and neck, and that’s only what I saw with my eyes. My fingers told me more. Your vulva puffed and your clitoris swelled with excitement. I could feel how slick you became. How your body opened for my fingers, preparing itself for penetration.”

  I could have done without the terms engorged and vulva, but his frank, honest description of what he experienced and witnessed was all kinds of hot. Much hotter than slang terms guys in high school used. None of them could find a clitoris even using a map. Or had their finger placed directly on it. They were all about insertion and screwing. Literally.

  I fell back into the pillows on Jason’s bed. His mouth on my sex was almost too much. He knew what he was doing.

  This wasn’t fumbling around in new territory. No random jabs or pokes. Nothing about his movements felt awkward.

  Part of me wanted to find the woman, or women, who taught him how to do this. No man was born knowing a woman’s body like he played mine right now. Most needed a beacon like a little pink lighthouse sitting at the apex, beaming its light into the darkness. Or tiny versions of those guys at the airport with their mini light sabers guiding the penis into the vagina.

  Then again, Jason did teach biology. Maybe he lied when he said he’d never taught human sexuality before. He could be a natural. Or an amazingly quick learner.

  His tongue pressed against me, sending sparks of pleasure firing throughout my body.

  Or a damn genius.

  His mouth began to gently suck while his fingers explored. No, not explored. Claimed me.

  My hands curled into the pillows. I wanted to pull his hair. Hard. Some part of me wanted to inflict a little pain to balance out the pleasure he gave me.

  From my center, energy crackled and snapped through my body out to my fingers and toes. My muscles coiled and tightened.

  Oh. Oh. Oh.

  “Vulva!” I yelled, clamping my thighs around his head.

  Oh, oh, oh, no.

  No. No. No.

  Maybe he didn’t hear me because of the thigh-muffs.

  Who was I kidding?

  Everyone in his building, and maybe out on the street probably heard me. Vulva echoed down the hall, the stairs, ringing off of the brick buildings along the parked cars, scaring flocks of birds from the trees. Children stopped playing in the park and looked around in confusion before their mother’s hands covered their ears. Dogs howled out their own version of vulva. Ruh-ra, ruh-ra.

  His hands pressed my legs apart and he sat up on his knees between them. “Did you shout out vulva?”

  I covered my head with his pillow. He pulled and I held on tight, wishing for a quick, soft, down-filled death to claim me.

  Unfortunately, he was stronger and the pillow went flying across the room.

  “I’m pretty sure you said vulva.”

  “I don’t think so.” With my eyes closed, I shook my head against the mattress. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. “Who would say such a word out loud? Ever.”

  “I said it in the car less than an hour ago.” He tickled me and I peered at him through my lashes.

  “Well, that makes one of us.” I widened my eyes in faux innocence. “You’re probably the only guy to ever say that word.”

  He crawled up my body and kissed my left nipple. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “Why would I be embarrassed? I didn’t say anything.”

  He dragged his teeth over the sensitive area, causing the nipple to rise in a salute. “Vulva.”

  “Stop!”

  He lifted his mouth away from my skin. “You want me to stop kissing you?”

  “No, keep doing that part. Stop speaking. No more words.”

  “Vulva?” He rubbed his nose over my ribcage to the other breast.

  I scraped my nails over his scalp, and then yanked on his hair.

  “Ouch. Okay, I’ll stop.” He sucked on a spot below my ear.

  I sighed in
relief.

  “What are your feelings on labia?” he whispered, and then stifled my annoyed mumbling with a searing kiss.

  We spent all of my spring break at his apartment. Mostly naked, although we did drive back to Olympia to pick up some clothes from this decade. He might have loved to torture me with anatomically correct vocabulary, but he wasn’t so cruel as to make me do a walk of shame in a caftan.

  It poured rain every single day. Friday afternoon the sun peeked out and we literally ran outside to witness it like a rare comet. Blinking into the bright light, he suggested we go to Alkali Beach, west of the city. It wasn’t a warm, sandy beach in San Diego where my friends had headed, but it worked.

  We stopped for groceries and rented a movie at the video store on the way back to the apartment. As we passed through the lobby, he paused to get his mail. An envelope from Ohio State stuck out on top, his name typed in neat lines.

  “What’s that?” My curiosity got the better of me. I’d promised myself not to ask anything about the future after this week. I was a freshman. He was a grad student. No way would this thing between us have a chance of lasting.

  “Oh, nothing.” He tucked the letter under a copy of Scientific American.

  “If it’s nothing, then why are you hiding it?”

  “It’s not important. Come on, you promised me your famous Campbell’s tomato soup if I made grilled cheese.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, but wasn’t going to let this come between me and grilled cheese with tomato soup.

  I managed not to burn the soup and his grilled cheese skills impressed me. As we watched Bull Durham, the stack of mail on the chair by the front door kept calling to me. I didn’t understand what needed to be secretive about a letter from Ohio. He attended grad school at UW already, why did it matter?

  I half watched the TV and spent the rest of the time shooting dirty looks at the mail.

  “Why are you staring at the door?” He stroked his hand down my hair where my head rested on the pillow in his lap. “Are you expecting someone? Or wanting to leave?”

  I rolled over to face him. “What makes you think I want to leave?”

  “Every time you look away from the TV, you move your head. Even with the pillow, it rubs across my lap like the world’s slowest, worst attempt at stimulation.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. Unless you thought you were turning me on. In which case, I have better suggestions.” He tapped my nose.

  I sat up, then straddled him. “What did you have in mind?”

  Instead of touching me, he laced his fingers behind his head. “What’ve you got?”

  “You want me to take charge?”

  Closing his eyes, he nodded. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. A week’s worth of beard growth covered his jaw. The wave of hair over his forehead earlier this year now reached past his brows. I brushed it back.

  A small group of freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. I removed his glasses and leaned back to set them on the coffee table, giving one more scowl at the mail before sitting up again. I traced his bone structure with my fingertips, running them along his cheekbones and down his jaw. He lowered his hands to my hips, but didn’t open his lids. His only encouragement was a gentle squeeze.

  My index finger outlined his lips and the faint smile lines in the corners of his eyes. Each action committed him to memory. I tugged his sweater over his head and the shirt underneath came off as well.

  I read his skin and muscles with my fingertips. He had a small pox vaccine mark on his shoulder and another scar, maybe from the chicken pox under his left eye. A mole on his right pec blemished the smooth expanse of pale skin. A small patch of chest hair centered his chest. I scraped my fingers through it before moving lower to his ribs.

  As I continued, the truth of us came to be.

  He would be leaving. Ohio. Or someplace else would offer him a job, a future. He’d take it because that’s what academics did. They followed the dream job, the promise of tenure, the perfect research position.

  What was I going to do? Ask him to stay? Wait for me?

  This wasn’t a beginning.

  This would be good-bye.

  “You stopped.”

  I focused on his deep blue irises. “You’re leaving.”

  “Where am I going? I can’t even get up with you sitting on me.”

  “No, not right this minute. Or tonight. Or tomorrow. Or next week.”

  He furrowed his eyebrows together. “Eventually we’ll have to leave the apartment again for food and condoms.”

  “I mean Seattle. That’s why you won’t tell me about Ohio.”

  He closed his eyes for a beat before he nodded. When he reopened them, his gaze was steady, but held regret. “I applied for post-doc programs months ago. I don’t even know if I got accepted.”

  “It’s a thick envelope.”

  “It could be filled with all the reasons why I suck and they’d never accept me.”

  “That’s probably it. You’ll be stuck teaching freshmen about sex forever.”

  “There are worse jobs in life.” He tightened his arms around my lower back. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I should have told you the truth. Instead, I made it about crossing some ethical line with you.”

  I rested my head on his shoulder. “Let me understand this. You’re saying you have no morals, but you do have ambition?”

  His laughter made me bounce on his chest. “Maybe I should give up biology and join Kevin in politics.”

  “You do have nice hair. Like a Kennedy.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “We can still hang out until summer. I’m not going anywhere before June, if not later.”

  Tears pricked behind my lashes. I couldn’t invest more and have it end. As tough as I pretended to be, I still had a heart.

  Rather than answer him with a lie, I stood up. Taking his hand, I led him to the bedroom.

  We never did get our answering machine fixed. It made it easier to move on from Jason if I couldn’t get messages from him. He thwarted me a few weeks later with a note left on my bulletin board. A sweet good-bye I didn’t really deserve. I put it in my boxes being stored for the summer.

  There once was a girl who shouted vulva

  So loud it was heard from here to Russia

  I’ve never met a girl like you

  Now you’re gone, I’m feeling blue

  Something something something rhymes with vulva

  (I suck at limericks. Even more so at good-byes.)

  Benton Grant, 19

  Economics and Finance major

  Sophomore

  What moment changed the course of your life?

  Bombing in statistics.

  Yes, I’m serious.

  Having to get help. No, having to admit I wasn’t perfect and maybe I did care a little bit changed everything. For the first time in my life, I cared.

  “Peter Piper” ~ RUN DMC

  I WANTED TO get stoned.

  Punch something.

  Listen to rap and curse.

  Run.

  Drive fast, with all the windows open. No destination or schedule in mind.

  Why?

  Somehow I was on the verge of failing the statistics section of my global economics and world markets course.

  Two weeks into sophomore year and I’d already bombed two quizzes.

  Unacceptable for many reasons.

  I had to make an appointment with my professor according to his note on the last quiz.

  How could I make my first million by thirty if I couldn’t pass a lower level statistics section?

  I found Roger in the student union, aka the CAB, hanging out with some chick with a thousand piercings in her ears. With a nod of understanding, he agreed to stop by my room in thirty.

  Back in the dorm, I blasted Licensed to Ill, and lay on my bed, waiting for Roger to show up with a quarter. Old habits were habits for a
reason.

  He did the classic shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits knock. He thought he acted smooth and clever. In reality, he was neither. Because his older brother had a direct source for amazing BC bud, I put up with him.

  I checked the bag for seeds and stems, then handed over the cash. The stuff was sticky and sweet. We hung out shooting the shit for ten minutes, while I loaded up my bong, stuffed a towel under the door, and opened the window.

  “Where’s your roommate?” Roger made himself at home on the empty bed.

  “Don’t have one. I have the whole double to myself.”

  “No way. How’d you swing that?”

  “Amazing what money can do.” I lit up and took a long drag. The water bubbled as smoke billowed up the glass, entering my lungs when I moved my finger. I held my breath, letting the heat burn. After a moment, I exhaled the smoke out my window.

  Calm began to invade my bloodstream.

  Roger took a hit and then checked his beeper. “Gotta go.”

  I wasn’t going to ask him to stay. “Thanks, man.”

  He kicked the towel out the way. Half the dorm probably smoked pot, but old habits had also taught me to be smart about it.

  After a couple more hits, I replaced the bong in the closet next to the box holding various pipes, and stuffed the baggie in my sock drawer.

  The sense of panic and anxiety abated. Feeling like I could breathe again, I opened my statistics text book and started studying before dinner.

  According to Donald McDonald, statistician and Santa impersonator, I needed to attend a weekly study group with a tutor if I wanted to get through stats. Okay, he probably didn’t impersonate Kris Kringle, but he could rock the mall Santa gig if he wanted.

  He suggested a guy who took his class last year. Joe was a Legal and Public Admin, aka pre-law, major, and some sort of statistics wizard. Whatever floated his boat as long as he could get stats to stick in my brain.

  Old McDonald told me to show up in the library on Monday at noon for the weekly study session.

  I arrived a couple minutes late after making a stop at my room for a quick smoke. There were only two other people in the room, besides Joe, who sat at the head of the table. He looked like one of those wannabe jocks who kept records of all his favorite baseball players’ stats, but never played a game himself. Could’ve been the backwards Mariners’ cap on his head.