Little Things

by Donya Lynne

  The front of his hips meet my body, and he lets out a luscious sigh. “God, you feel good.”

  That’s it? He’s in? All the way?

  That wasn’t so bad.

  He barely moves, slowly rocking his hips, pressing fully against me.

  “Are you still okay?” he asks, his voice breathy and urgent.

  “Yes.” Surprisingly, it’s starting to feel good. Strange. Tight. But good. I smile and slide my arms farther around his back. “What about you?”

  His breath hitches with amusement, and he gives me a broken, lopsided grin. “I’m very okay.” He begins moving with more certainty.

  Now that he knows he’s not hurting me, he seems more confident, getting more into it. And now that I’m getting used to how it feels to be full of Gunner, I’m starting to loosen up.

  I’m not sure I’ll be able to have an orgasm, but it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Maybe because he did such a good job preparing me.

  He begins sliding in and out. His strokes are shallow at first, and then they elongate, growing more energetic, deeper, gruffer.

  The noises he makes intensify. His moans turn into groans then into growls, and finally into a steady roll of grunts as his body slaps against mine.

  “Gunner!” I hold on with everything I have. My body sings, awakened to a new type of pleasure. I’m not having an orgasm, but watching him lose control, knowing I’m the one doing that to him, fills me with awestruck wonder bordering on bliss.

  Moments later, his body seizes, and he lets out a prolonged groan that sounds like a tight exhale. He’s holding me, pumping his hips in shallow thrusts, grunting and uttering my name in my ear. “Cami . . . oh my God, Cami.”

  When his orgasm subsides, he pushes up to look into my eyes. His are glazed. He’s panting, and then a wondrous grin pops over his mouth, lighting up his whole face.

  “What?” I smile up at him, saying one last good-bye to my virginity as it locks itself inside his soul.

  “Nothing. Just . . .”

  I bite my lip, waiting.

  “I never thought it would be that good.”

  We gaze into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, and then he gently pulls out of me.

  The emptiness feels foreign now that he’s molded me to his shape and size, but I don’t have long to miss his fullness as he slides down my body.

  “What are you doing?”

  He kisses his way down my stomach. “Taking care of you.”

  “What do y—?” I cut off as he clamps his mouth on me, rapidly flicking his tongue over my clit.

  Throwing my head back, I grip his head and cry out. My orgasm is already flying toward home base. I’m seconds from blowing apart. Having sex has helped me discover a whole new set of nerve endings.

  “Gunner, Gunner . . . oh God!” He’s given me a lot of orgasms in the last week, but this one is going to put them all to shame.

  His tongue, his mouth, the heat and slick wetness. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t make a single sound as every muscle in my body pulls in on itself.

  And then . . .

  I explode.

  Losing all sense of where I am and what’s happening to me, all I can do is give in to the pleasure ripping through me.

  So this is what all the fuss is about? I’ve heard the other kids at school talk about it, and I’ve read about it in my dirty books, but now I get it. This right here . . . this moment. The euphoria lifting me to another plane is why girls dream about this moment all their lives and cry when their boyfriends break up with him. It’s why God made orgasms, so that we mere mortals can get a glimpse of the joy that awaits us when we die, because what I’m feeling this very second is surely how it feels in heaven.

  When I finally come back down to earth, I open my eyes to find Gunner over me, holding himself up, watching my face intently, a smile stretching from ear to ear.

  “Did you like that?”

  That is still happening. My legs and arms still quiver every few seconds as aftershocks ricochet through my body, and my heart beats at a frenzied tempo.

  “Yes.” The word comes out more as a breath than a part of speech.

  His smile grows wider, and he gives me a long, tender kiss. No tongue this time. He joins his lips with mine and holds himself there while I revel in the pulsing energy lingering in my body.

  It’s official. I really am a woman now.

  Chapter 8

  “How many times have you done that?” I ask.

  He’s lying next to me, holding my hand, stroking my fingers with his. It’s been at least five minutes since my breathing returned to normal, and we’ve simply been staring up at the ceiling in silence, throwing each other occasional glances filled with secret giddiness. It’s as if neither of us can believe what just happened.

  He lets out a refreshed sigh and smiles. “Actually, I’ve never done that.”

  I frown. “Are you saying . . .? You weren’t a virgin, too, were you?”

  He lets go of my hand and rubs his palm down his face before rolling onto his side to face me. “No. I’m not a virgin. What I meant was that what I’ve done with other girls doesn’t even come close to what we just did.”

  I hold his gaze for a long time, both thrilled and nervous.

  “How many girls have there been?” I finally ask.

  Shadows pass through his eyes. “A few. I won’t lie, there have been other girls, Cameron. Not many, but enough for me to know what I’m doing.”

  I assumed there had been, so this doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is how much I don’t like hearing him talk about it. But just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I don’t need to hear it. I do. Especially when he said that what he did with the girls who came before doesn’t compare to what he and I just did. And, honestly, after how he just made me feel, I can’t be jealous of how he gained his experience.

  “How is what we did different from the other girls?”

  He takes hold of my hand again, sliding his fingers between mine. “It just was.” He offers me a compassionate smile. “The other girls I’ve been with never made me feel special. I felt more like a conquest.” He lies back down but keeps his head turned toward me. “Sex with someone who just wants sex is like trying to take a drink from an empty glass. Sex with you felt like I was drinking from a fountain.” He chuckles. “I just had no idea how thirsty I was.”

  I smile and prop myself on my elbow. “What makes sex with me so special?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because of how I feel about you. Because when you want something as long as I’ve wanted you, it’s like winning the lottery when you finally get it.”

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” I ask, running my other hand up his ripped stomach. College has done his physique good. He was always hot, but now he’s even hotter.

  “Nick,” he says.

  “Nick?”

  “I didn’t want my best friend kicking my ass for putting the moves on his little sister.”

  “He’s still your best friend,” I remind him.

  “I know, but I’m done holding myself back for fear of what your brother will do to me. I’ve tried to like other girls. I’ve tried to honor you as my best friend’s little sister by staying away. But I’m done with that shit. I refuse to live in fear of Nick kicking my ass, anymore.” He rolls me to my back and settles partially on top of me, one of his legs slung over mine. The sole of his foot caresses my calf. “You don’t want that, do you?”

  “What? Nick kicking your ass? Or you staying away because you’re afraid he will?”

  “Look at you, getting all smart-mouthed now that I’ve fucked you.”

  I gasp. “Gunner!”

  He laughs, and I love the sound. I also love the way his chest vibrates against mine. “I’m only kidding.” He tilts his head. “I mean, technically, we did fuck, but I don’t like how that word feels for what just happened between us.”

  Honestly, I don’t either. What happened
between Gunner and me was too special to call fucking.

  I smile and trail my palms up his arms to his shoulders. “To answer your question, no, I don’t want you to stay away because of my brother.”

  I’m a little upset to learn that Nick was his reason for not revealing his feelings sooner. To think we could have been doing this years ago. It’s almost criminal that we robbed ourselves of all that time.

  He slides off me and rolls to his back again, raking his hair off his forehead. “I can’t believe you never knew I liked you.”

  “I can’t believe you never knew I liked you.”

  He throws me an incredulous glance. “You did?”

  “Duh.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. From the moment I met you.” Did he really not know? “I thought it was obvious.”

  The expression on his face as he turns his gaze back to the ceiling is one of bewilderment. No doubt he’s doing the math inside his head to figure out how long we could have been playing doctor with one another.

  “I never realized,” he says. “Then again”—he tosses me a cheesy smile—“I’m a big dumb guy. I’m clueless when it comes to girls liking me.”

  “Well, I guess I’m just as clueless, because I thought you never even noticed me. I thought I was just Nick’s baby sister to you.”

  He rolls to his side and props himself on his elbow, brushing my hair off my face. “No. You were never just Nick’s baby sister.” He gazes at me for the longest time, and then a goofy smile breaks over his face. “There was this one time during the summer before my sophomore year when I was out riding bikes with Nick. It was really hot, and we ended up coming back to your house to get into the air conditioning. We pedaled our ten-speeds into the driveway, and there you were, practicing free throws. You had gotten your hair cut short earlier in the day. Do you remember that?”

  I do and wince. “Ugh, yes. I hated that haircut.” I remember being embarrassed when he saw me.

  “I know you did, but I thought it was cute. It made you look older.” His palm slides down my long blond hair. “Don’t get me wrong, I love your hair longer, especially now, but back then, seeing it shorter made me see you in a whole new way.”

  I’m suddenly grateful for the haircut I hated but caught his eye.

  “I already had a crush on you,” he continues, “but that day, I think my crush turned into something more. Infatuation maybe. I don’t know what to call it. I just know it was stronger than a crush.

  “Anyway, Nick and I rode our bikes up the driveway, and you shot a free throw and missed then rushed up and grabbed the rebound and took it in for a layup. I thought that was so sexy.

  “Watching you play basketball always turned me on. Don’t ask me why. I think I just liked seeing you get all sweaty and messy. It was different from how the other girls were. They always had to have every hair in place and their makeup perfect. It’s like they thought perspiration was this terrible, horrible thing. And there you were, covered in sweat, your hair falling out of your ponytail and sticking to your face and the back of your neck. God, seeing you like that was such a turn-on.” He sighs and traces my jaw with his fingertip. “Tonight at the party reminded me of that day.”

  “It did?”

  “Oh yeah.” He nods dramatically.

  “How?”

  “Seeing you dancing. You’re a great dancer, by the way. I’ve never seen you dance like that.”

  I flash him a coy glance. “It’s the new me.”

  “I like it. But yeah, you were all sweaty, and all I wanted to do was join you on the dance floor and lick your skin.”

  “Sounds kinky.” Grown-up Gunner is a bit of a freak. He likes me sweaty. I’ll have to remember that.

  That sly grin breaks over his face again. “I might be a little kinky.” He winks at me. “Not much, though. Is that going to be a problem?”

  Is he kidding? We just had sex, and I loved every second of it. Then again, maybe he didn’t show me his particular brand of kinky. “I guess that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “What you consider kinky.”

  His expression grows mischievous. “Whips, candle wax, bondage. That sort of thing.”

  My eyes go wide and my mouth falls open. “I . . . I’m not sure—”

  He laughs. “I’m only kidding.” He scoots closer, making the space around us more intimate. “I might spank you when I take you from behind, though.”

  “From behind?”

  “You know, doggie style.”

  I know “from behind” and “doggie style” are the same thing. I’m just surprised he’s already thinking about doing that with me. It’s as if he’s already fantasized about it.

  His palm trails down to my wrist, and he lifts my forearm. “Maybe I’ll put a blindfold on you or tie your wrists with a scarf or something. I’ve never done that before.”

  “You haven’t?”

  He shakes his head as his fingers caress my wrist. He meets my gaze and grins. “I’d like to try it.”

  I’ve read about men who blindfold women and tie them up during sex, and I’ll admit such ideas have found their way into my own fantasies. “What if I don’t like it?”

  “Then we won’t do it.” He takes hold of my opposite arm and rolls to his back, pulling me with him so I’m snuggled against his side.

  I settle my head on his chest. My arm rests across his stomach, and his fingers are lazily caressing it.

  I still can’t believe we just had sex. I don’t really feel different. I thought losing my virginity would be more grandiose and that I would feel older or more womanly or something. But I still feel the same. Just happier, because the person I had sex with is the one I always wanted.

  Out of all the girls he could have chosen, he picked me. It blows my mind.

  “Why me?” I ask quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  I push myself onto my elbow. “You could have anyone, Gunner. Why me?”

  He frowns like my question upsets him. “Why not you?”

  I sit up and pull the blankets over my lap. “Well, because . . .” I think about it for a moment. “Because I’m not one of those girls. You know, the ones with the perfect hair and the perfect makeup.”

  He lets out an incredulous laugh. “I thought we already settled this. I don’t want perfect. Perfect is boring.”

  “Well, I’m a dork. I’m a total geek. I get straight A’s.” That’s got to be as boring as perfection.

  He scoots closer and smiles as if appeasing me. “Smart girls are sexy. Next.” He gives me a cool expression that says he’s ready to dispel every reason I could possibly throw at him for why I can’t believe he would choose me over someone else.

  I point to my trumpet case sitting on the floor by my desk. “I play in the band.” I say it like I’m challenging him.

  He relaxes and rests his head on his hand. “Haven’t you heard that trumpet players make the best kissers?”

  I huff and cock my head. “You just made that up.”

  “No I didn’t.” He sits up and faces me. “It’s true. Google it.” He grabs his phone from my nightstand, cutting off the music. He opens a Google search on his phone then activates the microphone to ask, “Do trumpet players make the best kissers?” His phone chimes, and he begins reading from the first result that pops up in the search results.

  I cut him off. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Of course it does. It proves I’m right.”

  I roll my eyes. “No it doesn’t.”

  He tosses his phone to the side and pushes me onto the bed, holding me down as he kisses me breathless. When he breaks away, he grins. “Then ask me.”

  “Ask you what?”

  “If trumpet players make the best kissers.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  I huff, a little irritated that he stopped kissing me when I was starting to get worked up again. “Fine. Are trumpet players the best kis
sers?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” He briefly finds my mouth again then nudges my nose with his as he breaks away. “Because you’re the best kisser I’ve ever known.” He kisses me again, letting his lips play over mine. Then he pulls away. “Speaking of trumpets, I haven’t told you about my tattoo, yet, have I?”

  I perk up. Honestly, I’d forgotten about it. I’ve seen it every night, but it’s always too dark to make out what it is. All I know is that it takes up his shoulder and part of his left pectoral.

  “No.”

  He sits up and grabs his phone again, turning on the flashlight.

  I shield my eyes at the sudden brightness. When I open them again and adjust to the light, I study the swirls of ink.

  His tattoo is a musical staff wrapped around itself in a distorted figure eight. There’s a treble clef, musical notes, rest signs, flats and sharps, all created with an artistic flourish.

  “Music?”

  “Music set in an infinity loop.” He looks down at his shoulder, tracing the tip of his finger around the figure eight. “The musical notes signify all the ups and downs we’ve had and will continue to have as we move forward, because I’m sure we’ll go through our share of rough patches as we figure out this new direction we’ve taken in our relationship.” He meets my gaze again. “But the infinity loop symbolizes that my feelings for you will never change.”

  I’m flattered and touched, but we’ve only just started down this new path. What if he does change his mind in a month or two? A year?

  “How do you know your feelings will never change?”

  “Cameron, I’ve felt this way about you for years. Do you really think that’s going to change now?”

  I press my palm against his ink. “I don’t know, but getting a tattoo is awfully permanent.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turns off the light and eases down on top of me again, stroking my face. “That’s how strong my feelings are for you. To me, they are permanent.” He stares into my eyes for the longest time, running the backs of his fingers over my cheek. “Cameron, sometimes you just know.”

  He’s so warm and solid against me. So real. I’m definitely not dreaming. “Know what?”