So even though I’m way too big to be back here, it’s more fun than I’ve had in a long time, and I can’t stop myself from smiling, even though we’re in the middle of a kiss.
I pull my head back so I can look at Molly directly and ask, “What are you smiling at?”
Her teeth are bright white against her golden skin, and I can see the tiny freckles on her nose even though the only light is from the street lamps in the parking lot, and the heavy sheets of rain are dimming them considerably.
“Same thing you are, I imagine.” The smile hasn’t left her face, but then she cocks her head sideways and asks, “Why aren’t you kissing me?” Molly puckers those wonderfully juicy lips, and, unable to resist, I tip my head forward the smallest inch and suction my mouth to her bottom lip, sucking it and running my tongue along her teeth.
Her mouth opens, and our tongues meet in an all-consuming kiss that leaves us both breathless. It’s my favorite kind: sloppy and wet; neither of us care about taking our time. I might even be drooling. Who the hell knows?
Who the hell cares?
Molly’s teeth nibble hesitantly at my lower lip and I feel her shiver. I place my hands upon her shoulders, running them up and down her arms before spanning them on her waist, dangerously close to the underside of her breasts. My fingers begin itching to travel south, down to the threadbare hem of her navy-blue tank top, and, never one to ignore my inner urges, I let them do just that.
Her breath hitches and her back arches in an unspoken invitation.
* * *
Molly
Oh my god, oh my god, are the only words going through my head right now—well, those and, Holy shit, he’s about to touch my boobs. As Weston’s capable fingers trail the length of my shirt, lightly skimming back and forth along the hem, I bite back the small gasp stuck in my throat, afraid it will make me sound like the virgin I am not.
The reality is…I really don’t have much experience with guys, and I’ve only been felt up a handful of times.
It’s confession time. I’ve only ever had sex one time.
Here’s the ugly truth: I didn’t want to head off to college without having done it at least once—the world’s worst logic, I know—and if my parents found out the circumstances, they would be so pissed.
Matt would go postal.
It happened one weekend about four months ago. My whole family was in Madison for one of Matt’s hockey games when my parents naïvely let me spend the night at Matt’s house instead of with them at their hotel. I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t getting out of control, but the opportunity presented itself in the form of hottie Badger goalie Ryan LeShea, who flirted and followed me around all night, and who had no problem whatsoever doing the honor of debauching me after a raucous victory party.
It wasn’t magical.
It hurt like hell.
It definitely wasn’t love or anything even remotely close to it.
And yeah, I haven’t seen him since (not that I want to).
So, as Weston’s fingers graze the skin under my thin shirt, I can’t help but tense up slightly from the contact and hope he doesn’t notice. It feels foreign to have a guy’s hand up my shirt, even though it feels great. Suddenly he halts his movements. “Is this okay, babe?” he asks. “If you’re not comfortable, I can stop.” Weston is looking down at me, concern in his dark brown eyes.
It’s the word babe that does it for me.
I love hearing it, almost as much as I love…
Instead of speaking, I take his hand and guide it higher. He groans into my neck as his fingers skim the underside of my breasts, teasing the light fabric of my bra.
* * *
Weston
Molly feels so good I could almost cry.
Okay, so obviously that is an exaggeration, but I’m merely trying to illustrate a point. Touching Molly and kissing her is…beyond amazing.
Her skin is ridiculously soft, and my hands are so calloused and rough that I’m slightly awestruck by the difference. I feel her body tense up when my fingers graze her stomach, so I pull away again to ask, “Is this okay, babe? If you’re not comfortable, I can stop.”
The babe reference slips out again before I can stop it, but it sounds nice to my ears, and apparently to Molly’s, too, because her eyes get big and fill with something that looks to me like adoration. She takes my hand and guides it underneath her shirt.
Then my brain goes to a place it’s gone to a million times before, only this time I blurt my thoughts out aloud, well ahead of any common sense, and with no thought to the consequences. I know I shouldn’t say it, but I do. “Molly, are you…a virgin?”