It Happened on Maple Street

The second the door was closed Tim pulled me to him. He was like a starved man, clutching me so tightly I couldn’t think of anything but him. Being as close to him as possible.

His hunger mirrored mine, and I didn’t feel any shame at all.

I was burning up. Nothing else mattered but his lips pressing against mine, opening mine. I had no idea what to do, but I needn’t have worried about what I didn’t know. Loving Tim was natural. My tongue knew how to mate with his.

Or he was just an incredibly good teacher.

I couldn’t get enough—didn’t ever want the moments to end. He stepped backward and with his hand pressed against the back of my thigh, took me with him. My body was an extension of his. Connected to his.

I needed more.

I knew it was wrong when he laid me back against the bed. We were there to lift weights. His mother was just feet away. Good girls became bad girls when they lay on beds with boys. And I couldn’t stop him. My brain and my heart were at war, and my brain was not going to win.

“You’re so good at that.” His voice was husky. He was lying on top of me, cradling me with his arms, staring down at me with those brown eyes that I recognized from another lifetime. Another realm.

“At what?” The words stuck in my throat.

“Kissing.”

He was kidding, right? I had no idea what I was doing. No experience except with him.

“I want to kiss you again.”

“Okay.”

My answer wasn’t necessary.

I couldn’t stop him from kissing me, but I would stop him after that. He wouldn’t get to second base again. My bra was going to stay in place. He was not going to touch my breasts. And certainly not my nipples. The way that made me feel was just plain wrong.

I was a good girl.

But he could kiss me for the rest of the night. The rest of my life.

Tim’s tongue was playing with mine, touching, withdrawing, exploring. I loved it. Was consumed by his musky cologne. The half groans he was making ignited me.

His hand was at my side. Under my shirt. But that was okay. It was only my side. He was not going to touch my breasts again.

He moved, his hips rubbing against my pelvic bone.

I moved, too, opening my legs just a little bit. And he rubbed. He was big beneath his jeans. And hard. Like a rock.

I was fascinated by this part of him that touched me and grew. I wanted to see it. To watch it. To feel it.

And his hand slid up, touching my ribs.

That was okay. It was just ribs. He was not going to touch my breasts. I opened my mouth wider.

And I moaned.

This was wrong. And so right. I needed him.

His hand slid over my breast. It stopped on top of it. Cupping it. It was time to tell him to stop. And I was going to. As soon as he tried to get underneath my bra. He could touch my bra. He could not touch my breasts.

My breath came in gasps, my whole body straining for something that was just out of reach. Something I’d never experienced before. I didn’t know what would happen. But I knew that I’d sell my soul to let it happen. I yearned to find what was there. I had to fly. And to fall.

Tim unclipped my bra and covered my naked breast with his bare hand. He touched my nipple and then held it between his fingers.

And my hips were reaching up to meet his. To seek his. To push against his hardness.