“Good,” he says. “I don’t either. Ladies first.”* * *Inside, coats off, bags on the floor next to shoes. He kisses me before the door is shut, after it’s shut, while I’m unlacing my shoes and trying not to fall over. I leave my sweater on the railing of the stairs, my shirt on the floor, and by the time we’re in his bedroom I’m in a tank top and jeans, Caleb shirtless.
We don’t bother shutting the door. The room is lit by bedside lamps and Caleb walks me in, backward, one hand on my back and one twisting in the front of my skin-tight tank top.
“You know what the hardest part of Thanksgiving is going to be?” he asks, hands on my ribcage, his thumbs already brushing my stiff nipples through my bra.
“You?” I ask, and he laughs.
“I’m afraid watching my brothers argue isn’t terribly erotic,” he says, as I take my hands off him, reach for my bra clasp.
“What, then?” I ask, pulling it off through the arm holes of my shirt.
Caleb doesn’t answer, just runs the length of his hands over both nipples, from fingertip to palm, and my eyes slide closed at the friction.
“I like this shirt,” he says, his voice rough as he’s tracing the outline of my nipples with his thumbs. “You should wear it all the time, and you should never wear anything under it.”
I drape an arm over his shoulders, dip my fingers into the waistband of his jeans.
“To class, maybe?” I tease, and he looks at me in slight alarm.
“No,” he says, pinching my nipples between his fingers. “Jesus, never to class. You want me to forget what three times three is?”
“You’ve got a calculator,” I murmur, and slide my palm down the long, hard, thick ridge of his cock.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls, playful, pushing me back again toward the bed. “You’re supposed to be my partner, not my temptress.”
The backs of my knees hit the bed and instead of falling over, I climb on, kneeling, facing him, one hand on his cock and the other pulling at a belt loop.
“I’m not your temptress?”
“I’d prefer if you weren’t in class,” he says. “Just give me two more weeks, and then you can have your nipples out in class all day long. Wait. No.”
I laugh, tugging at the button on his jeans, practically tearing the zipper down.
“Shut up and take your pants off,” he teases, already shoving them over my hips.
I fall backward, wriggle out of my jeans, and Caleb leans over the bed and pulls my panties down too. I shove at his pants as he crawls on top of me and a few moments of maneuvering later, he’s naked and I’m wearing nothing but this shirt, my legs wrapped around him, his thick cock bumping against my clit, my hands on the hard muscles in his back.
I am aching with need and every touch, every thrust makes it worse, like he’s taunting me. I reach between us and grab his cock, the underside already slippery with my juices, and he thrusts into my hand and groans into my shoulder. I stroke him hard once, twice, and then I’ve made up my mind.
“Roll over,” I murmur, and he does, catching my wrist, dragging me on top of him. He pulls my shirt off as I straddle his hips, hands on his chest, automatically grinding against him, my body pleasure-seeking.
In the back of my mind, something ugly and old whispers good girls don’t, and I squash it.
Instead I kiss him again and I push myself against him and think of his list: make sure she’s aroused.
Yeah, check.
I lean over, stretching away from him, open the drawer, and grab a condom.
Then I remember the first bullet point and go back for a bottle of lube. I straddle him again, lower, tear the condom wrapper with my teeth because my hands are too slippery, then pull it from the wrapper.
I’ve never done this part before. I know the theory, and it’s not rocket science, but when you’re putting a condom on a banana as practice you’re never so turned on you think you might explode. You’re never tempted — so, so tempted — to toss the condom away and bareback a banana because you’re just that impatient.
I make sure the condom is right side out, center it on the head of his cock, and it slips a little but then Caleb pushes himself up on one hand and his fingers are on mine as we unroll it onto him.
He grabs the bottle of lube, drizzles it on himself, pours some into his hand and strokes himself a few times, lies back on the bed, his hand on my thigh.
“C’mere,” he says in a voice that turns my insides even gooier.
I lean forward, kiss my lover, push away that tiny voice telling me I shouldn’t because I know, completely and unequivocally, that it’s wrong.