by Claire Adams
Finally, his hips were flush against mine, and we both paused, struggling to catch our breath. He began to move inside of me, slowly at first, and every movement sent tingling, electric jolts of pleasure through my body. “God, Becky,” Johnny said, half-moaning as he brought his lips down onto mine again. “You feel so good—so fucking good.” I nodded, not even able to speak, only able to kiss him, to grip his shoulders as hard as I possibly could, to wrap my legs around him and push my hips down to meet his thrusts.
We moved together, and every time Johnny pushed up deeper inside of me, I felt myself getting more and more turned on, closer and closer to orgasm. I couldn’t even hear the sounds of the party raging downstairs anymore, only the sounds of our moans and gasps and panting breaths, the sound of our bodies moving together with wet, slapping, sucking noises. Johnny reached down between our bodies, and I cried out as he began to stroke and rub my clit again, keeping time with his thrusts.
In a matter of moments—I certainly didn’t know how long it had been—I hit my climax, my fingernails digging into Johnny’s shoulders, my legs tightening around him, my whole body awash in wave after wave of pleasure. I was barely even aware of him groaning as he reached his own orgasm, but everything in my body tingled as we kept moving together until we simply couldn’t anymore, until I felt his weight against me when he collapsed, both of us panting.
The next morning, I shivered as I awakened, something ticklish brushing along the back of my neck; for just a second I was confused, disoriented—with no idea where I was. But the night before came flooding back in the next instant, and I smiled to myself, remembering how I had ended up in Johnny’s bed, how we had gone from me asking him to slow down, to me almost begging him to hurry up. I could still feel the ache deep down in my hips, the tenderness where he’d pushed up into me.
I realized that the ticklish feeling at the back of my neck was Johnny’s lips, brushing against my sensitive skin, his hot breath tracing the curve of my shoulder. I grinned to myself, turning around and over in the bed to look at him. “Ahh, you’re awake,” he said, smiling at me with his bright eyes dancing. He pulled me closer to him and kissed me hungrily, touching me everywhere.
I slithered just a little bit freer of his arms and tumbled on top of him; my memory of the night before—of how he had backed off when I had asked him to, how he had specifically asked me to tell him to stop if I needed to, any time I needed him to—turned me on yet again. He was so sweet and so gorgeous, and it had been so long since I had been with anyone that I couldn’t help myself. Johnny was already hard as I pushed my hips down against his, straddling him, pulling myself up to look down at him with a little playful grin. “My turn on top,” I said, and Johnny nodded, reaching up to cup my breasts and tease my nipples, even as I shifted on top of him, rubbing up against his hard cock.
I took him all at once, my hips starting to move even before I thought about it, and Johnny thrust up to meet me, driving his cock deep inside of me fast enough to make me almost cry out with pleasure. I bit my bottom lip and rode him hard and fast, balancing my weight on my hands above his shoulders. He felt so good that I knew I couldn’t hold back for long, couldn’t savor it the way we had the night before. Johnny kissed me everywhere his lips could reach, his hands wandering over my body and exploring my curves. When he began to stroke and rub me, I was gone almost immediately, burying my face against his neck to muffle the moans that ripped through my chest as wave after wave of pleasure rushed through me.
Chapter Ten
I couldn’t stop grinning—almost laughing—when Johnny walked me back to the dorms afterward; it was earlier than most of the campus population wanted to wake up on a Saturday morning, and I couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t a walk of shame at all. He held my hand all the way, grinning at me, like we had some kind of secret between us that no one else knew, and I was still tingling all over, not even caring that my feet were sore from the heels, that I was exhausted down to my bones.
I immediately woke Gigi up to tell her about what had happened, about how Johnny had even given me a long, lingering kiss when we got to the entrance of the dorm. I was giggling like an idiot as Georgia and I tumbled around her bed, laughing and squirming. “He said it was really special to him,” I almost crowed. “He said I was really special!”
“Girl, you got him—you nabbed Johnny Steel. What will our RA think of you?” We giggled and tumbled around some more, and I couldn’t help feeling happy in spite of how tired I was. “God, that was so perfect. You played it just right.” Georgia shook her head.
“It was definitely lucky,” I said, shaking my head. “Going from running into him—literally—to winding up in his bed in a week?” I buried my face against Georgia’s blankets, feeling the heat in my cheeks.
“It’s perfect. You are the luckiest girl on campus.” I had to agree that it was the perfect situation—that somehow everything had come out exactly right, but as soon as I thought about it that way, I felt a little trickle of nervousness in the back of my mind. If it was so perfect, something had to happen. Something had to come and screw it up. Nothing was perfect—ever. I decided not to think about it.
In spite of my worry, I was practically walking on air Monday morning when classes started up again, almost unable to contain my excitement. Johnny Steel thought I was special. Sleeping with me had really meant something to him—a guy who could have gotten any girl on campus. He had texted me a few times over the weekend while we were apart, sweet little notes about how much he was missing me, how he hoped he would see me at every home game, how much he wanted to meet up again and just hang out—even if we only cuddled.
It shocked me how much easier it was to pay attention in class when I’d gotten something I wanted so badly; instead of being completely distracted by thoughts of Johnny, I thought about him for a few minutes and then got back to work, telling myself that I would see him again soon enough. He wanted me, after all—his texts made it obvious that he was looking for more than just a random hookup.
I met Georgia at the dining hall for lunch, still tingling all over and giddy with excitement. I took out my phone while we were waiting in line, and almost couldn’t help but giggle as I showed her the texts he’d sent me—telling me how sweet I was, a little joke about calling him if I couldn’t find my way around campus again, about skipping class to make out.
We were looking around for a table, our trays loaded up with food, and I noticed the girl who had been so hot for Johnny the previous week, the one who had given me such a disgusted look at the party, watching us. I tried to shrug it off and pretend like I hadn’t even seen her, but the moment that Georgia and I sat down, she came over to our table, looking sulky and almost angry. “Can I help you with something?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Up close, she was—I had to admit—every bit as pretty as me, with red hair instead of blonde, and big brown eyes.
“I just thought I’d offer you some advice,” she said, smiling unpleasantly. “I mean, you’re a freshman, so you probably wouldn’t have heard.” I rolled my eyes.
“Go on then,” Georgia said.
“I heard things are pretty hot and heavy with you and Johnny,” the girl said, leaning in and not quite sitting down at the table with us.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I responded. I couldn’t quite make myself pick up my fork—I wanted to be ready if she was going to try and start a fight over him.
“Johnny’s a low-down player, and everyone knows it,” the girl said, flicking her fingers in a gesture of dismissal. “I just thought you’d like to know that he’s trash.”
I laughed. “Didn’t stop you from flirting with him, did it?”
The girl’s dark eyes blazed. “If you’re not careful, you’ll end up like Claire White.” I stared at her in confusion. Who the hell was Claire White? She grinned, looking pleased with herself. “Just something to keep in mind.” The girl walked away, not even giving us a second glance.
�
��Who is that?” I asked Georgia. She shrugged.
“Ignore it—she’s obviously just another jealous slag.” I dug my phone out of my bag and pulled up Google, putting the name in. As the search results loaded, I put the phone down between us on the table and frowned, impatient for the answer. Claire White, Promising College Student, Found Dead in her Dorm… A picture showed a good-looking girl, probably around the same age as me, and in the text under the headline, I saw that she’d committed suicide. Georgia and I looked at each other in confusion. What the hell did that have to do with Johnny?
BREATHLESS #2
Chapter One
In spite of how distracted the girl at lunch had made me, I knew I didn’t have any choice but to go to my afternoon classes. Georgia told me not to think about it, to give Johnny a chance to explain it if there was anything to explain, and I went on my way, headed to classes.
But I almost thought that I might as well not have bothered; as I sat there in class, telling myself over and over again that I had to focus on what was going on and what the professor was saying, I kept thinking about Johnny, about the stupid girl, and about Claire White. The implication was that Johnny was somehow involved in this other girl’s suicide; why else would the stupid girl from the dining hall even bring it up? But how was Johnny involved? If it was a suicide, how could anyone else really be involved? I wondered—was it some kind of thing where Johnny had bullied her? Or had he done something else?
I pushed aside the idea that Johnny could possibly have done anything directly to make someone kill themselves. I had known—not well, but a little bit—a girl in high school who had committed suicide. She hadn’t been able to take the pressure from her parents, she hadn’t been able to take the pressure from the school we went to, and someone had spread the rumor—after she had died—that she had been a lesbian as well, but I never knew if there was any truth to it. As far as I had ever known, people committed suicide for deeply personal reasons. Sure, bullies could push them do it, but the idea of Johnny bullying anyone was absolutely absurd. He was so sweet, so kind and nice, I couldn’t think of any way that he could even possibly be capable of that kind of vileness.
I remembered that he was playing an away game that night; I couldn’t even ask him what the situation was or what his connection was to this Claire White girl. I went from one class to another still thinking about it, still worrying about how I could get the information I wanted. I genuinely didn’t want to doubt Johnny; I wanted to just ignore the stupid girl’s comment and pretend I had never heard it. I wanted to totally put it out of my mind and assign it to spite because she was clearly into Johnny, and I—at least for now—clearly had him. I tried telling myself that over and over, and it didn’t help. Who was Claire White? What did her suicide have to do with Johnny? Could I even ask him?
I decided as my last class of the day was in progress that the only thing I could do to get at least a little bit of peace of mind was to text him. He was probably on the bus, or maybe in whatever city the game was happening in. He wouldn’t be able to call me, and obviously I couldn’t ask him the question that weighed on my mind the most, but I could have some contact with him, I could get some reassurance. It occurred to me that I also had no idea when he would even be home from the game—and I had no idea who else I could ask without betraying my total lack of knowledge. I didn’t even really know where he was playing, what school our team was up against.
So sitting in class, I sent Johnny a text. Hey, babe, thinking of you! How many days until you come back to me? I kept my phone in my lap and waited throughout the rest of class to hear from him; I got a buzz that nearly made me jump out of my seat—a totally unrelated text message from one of my high school friends, sharing an inside joke we’d had. I tried not to be disappointed, but I couldn’t help but feel like I would rather my friend have thought of the joke after I’d heard from Johnny. I forced myself not to text Johnny again. I was not going to be the kind of girl who couldn’t trust her boyfriend when he was away from home. Is he even my boyfriend? The thought shocked me. I realized that I had been taking things much more seriously than anything that had happened gave me any right to do.
I somehow managed to get my notes written down, and I absorbed maybe one word out of every five that the professor said in the lecture, and I knew that it was going to be just as bad as it was my first week. It had been so much easier to deal with when everything had been good and I had had no knowledge of Johnny having anything like a past. I had had a brief moment of complete ability to concentrate on my work. I would have to work harder. I would have to put any thoughts about Johnny—good and bad alike—aside whenever I was in class, or I would doom myself to failing half my classes. I would never have to worry about my English or Writing classes or Introduction to Academic Life; I would have to put actual effort into failing in order not to pass. But Math, and a couple of the other required freshman classes, I would absolutely have to learn how to pay attention.
I tried not to read anything into the fact that Johnny hadn’t replied to me as the class ended; if the bus was full of rowdy college boys, if they were all hanging out and roughhousing on their way to their away game, then he probably wouldn’t have heard my text or even noticed it. He probably wasn’t even thinking about his phone at all.
I reminded myself that we weren’t even technically serious—we’d had one real date, and just because I’d slept with him and just because he’d told me it meant something to him, it didn’t mean that he even considered himself my boyfriend yet. Let’s be real, he’s a frat boy and an upperclassman, I thought bleakly. Hold onto him for a month if you can, and then you can start worrying about whether or not he’s your boyfriend. I scolded myself for thinking more about Johnny than he really deserved after only knowing him for a couple of weeks at the most; he probably wasn’t thinking about me at all—and I couldn’t be mad at him for that. It wouldn’t be fair to him to expect him to be as involved as I was—not when he’d probably been with a slew of girls. I didn’t mind the idea of him being with other women before me, as long as he wasn’t with them still. I remembered the nasty girl from the dining hall and the party telling me that Johnny was a well-known player.
I had just about convinced myself that I wasn’t going to even think about it anymore as I was walking across campus, headed back to the dorms. I’d eat a snack, maybe watch some TV and get some studying done, and then I would see if there was any way that I could find out when Johnny would be back. I was thinking that there had to be a way to ask Johnny what his connection was to this Claire White girl without making him think I was being nosy or accusing him. As far as I knew, the girl was just trying to scare me off of a guy she had privately decided was “hers.” I started feeling better, thinking that I would just ignore her comments and move on with my life; I would have to get used to girls being petty and jealous about Johnny.
I spotted the girl from the dining hall as I was nearing the dorms, talking to some of her friends while they all wandered from a class or somewhere else on campus. I had no idea what they were talking about before I got close to them; they were all relaxed, from what I could see as I came up behind them. The girl glanced up at the sound of my feet on the pavement behind her and grinned, as nastily as I had ever seen anyone smile in my life. “Have you talked to Johnny-boy yet?” she asked me, calling out as I skirted the group of them, trying not to even look at her. I felt my cheeks burning with a blush. “I bet Johnny is just so excited to tell you all about it!” The other girls in the group with her laughed, as if it was the funniest joke in the world.
I hurried past them and had to swipe my card at the front entrance twice to get it to read properly. I was so shaken by their incredible meanness, by their rudeness—even if she had it out for me, what right did that girl have to dredge up someone else’s tragedy? I hurried up the stairs, not even bothering to wait for the elevator. The girls—if they were going to one of the other dorms—would have had to have passed through the fres
hman girls’ dorm building, and I didn’t want to give them an opening to make fun of me again.
It wasn’t just the fact of them making fun of me that made me feel so panicky; it was the worry that they might know something about Johnny that I didn’t. Something awful. What if it turned out that he had abused that poor girl, and that was why she committed suicide? What if—and this really lingered in my mind as I ran up the stairs to my floor—what if it hadn’t really been a suicide at all, and somehow that girl knew about it, even though it wasn’t common knowledge? How well did that girl even know Johnny? If she really had worries about Johnny’s involvement with some girl’s suicide, why would she flirt with him? And was her issue with me, or was it with Johnny?
I got to my door out of breath, my heart still pounding in my chest. I fumbled with my keys in my nervous hands, nearly dropping them. Chill, Becky. They don’t know where you live. They probably stopped even thinking about you as soon as you were out of sight. I forced myself to take a deep breath and finally managed to unlock the door to the room, dropping my backpack down on the floor next to the couch before throwing myself down onto it, turning the TV on and putting on one of the series that I liked.
I stared at the TV and pretended to watch, even though I knew I’d just have to re-watch the episode again later. My mind was spinning around in my head. I pulled my phone out of my bag, hoping against hope that Johnny had texted me and I had just managed to miss it. There was nothing there, and I found myself questioning the situation between him and me, between Johnny and the girl Claire, and the nasty, rude girl who had told me about Claire. She’s just being a bitch because Johnny is interested in you, I told myself. If she really thought he was a terrible person, why was she trying so hard to flirt with him the other night? I couldn’t think of a good reason—but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. My fingers itched to text Johnny again, but I forced myself not to. If I sent him a dozen texts in a day without him responding to even one of them, I’d look like a lunatic. Instead I read through his older texts to me, reminding myself of how sweet he was, how funny and kind. Surely he couldn’t have had anything to do with a girl who had killed herself.