Asher drops his forehead, rolling it against my own.
“You are,” he insists, his lips trailing from my cheek down to my ear, leaving goose bumps in their wake. “And this is the last fucking thing I should be doing with you.”
“What are you doing with me?” I whisper.
“Touching you,” he says, rubbing my wrists with his thumbs. A small noise slips from my mouth, and he lowers his body onto mine. Instinctively, my legs part to make room for him. He groans once he fits his hips between them.
“I need to leave,” he says, his voice thick and strained.
I lick my lips, mustering up all the courage I can when I ask, “Can I kiss you?”
He makes a pained noise, but he doesn’t deny me. He presses his lips to the skin just beneath my ear, then he trails his lips back across my cheek, down to my chin, and finally, his mouth is on mine. I’ve kissed a few boys, even though Dashiell, Asher, and Adrian, have done their best to run them off, but this is so much more than just a kiss. At least, for me it is.
Asher licks the seam of my lips before tugging the bottom one into his mouth. He sweeps his tongue inside, and tentatively, mine flicks out to tangle with his. I don’t know what I’m doing, but he must like it, because his hips flex, grinding into me. I feel him harden beneath his jeans, and I spread my legs further, wanting more, more, more. I pull my hands out of his grasp and bring one to the back of his neck, kissing him harder. The friction between my legs is something I’ve never experienced, and I don’t think anything could stop me from chasing this feeling. I feel it building, much more intense than anything I’ve ever done alone in the privacy of my bedroom. I wrap my legs around his back and rock into him, uncaring of seeming too eager.
“Fuck. Stop,” he rasps. I don’t.
“Briar, that’s enough,” he says, pinning my hands to the bed once again, this time using his demanding tone that brooks no argument. But I don’t listen. I tilt my hips up again, and he groans. Before I know what’s happening, I’m flipped over onto my stomach, my arms trapped at my sides by his knees as he straddles me.
“You’re fucking fourteen, Briar. I’m not even in high school anymore, for fuck’s sake.”
“I don’t care,” I say stubbornly. “I’m old enough to know what I want.” My hair is in my face, muffling my words. He brings a finger to my cheek and sweeps the strands behind my ear.
“You have no idea what you want,” he counters. “What you’re asking for.”
His condescending tone makes me feel childish and inferior, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I could feel his
want for me digging into my backside, I’d probably feel hurt, embarrassed, and rejected. In a brazen move, I arch my backside and move against him.
“So, show me,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him. His eyes are fixed on my pajama shorts that have ridden up, exposing my cheeks.
“No,” he says harshly. I drop my face into the mattress. God, my brother’s mattress. I’d tell him to take me to my room if I thought for one second he wouldn’t come to his senses and put a stop to this—whatever this is.
He shoves off me, horrified, and sits as far away from me as Dash’s queen bed will allow. “Fuck!” he yells, tugging at his hair. Seeing him like this is enough to make me feel guilty, but not enough to regret anything.
“Why, Asher?” I ask, tears brimming my eyes. “What is so wrong with me?”
When he doesn’t respond, I turn to leave, but Asher lunges for me, snatching my wrist and pulling me back toward him until I’m straddling his lap.
“Briar,” he says, his eyes searching mine, begging me to understand.
“Say what you mean and mean what you say, Ash. I’m not a mind reader.”
“You’re fourteen,” he stresses, as if that’s reason enough. And I suppose it is. But this thing feels bigger than our ages. He’s not some predator. He’s just…Asher.
“Not to mention, my best friend’s little sister. Do you know what I’d do if someone even looked at my little sister sideways?”
“You don’t have a sister,” I point out. “And it’s different,” I insist. I’m not like other girls my age, and I want this. My friend Sophie still plays with Barbies—when no one is looking, of course—and loves One Direction. I like this. This feeling with Asher, right here, right now.
“It’s not. It makes me sick,” he starts, his warm hands smoothing up my back. “It’s not right.”
I push his shoulders, causing him to fall backward, and boldly, I lean down and press my lips to his. At first, he doesn’t react. He simply lies back, allowing me to explore, to kiss and nibble and suck with his hands clenched at his sides. But when he feels my tongue against his lips, seeking entrance, his hands fly to my waist, and he kisses me back. This time it isn’t timid or polite. This kiss feels like war. A battle between right and wrong. Moral and corrupt. Honorable and deplorable.
Asher slides his right hand into my hair and positions us so that we’re both lying on our sides as he continues his assault on my mouth, on my soul. He shifts his body until his leg is wedged between mine, and I can’t help but chase that glorious friction once again. A moan slips free, and I feel him stiffen like he’s about to deny me again. I bring my hands to his cheeks to keep his lips on mine and rock into his thigh.
“Please, Ash. Touch me,” I beg.
“No.”