Our shoulders bump when he tries to lean in and kiss me, and we’re in such an awkward position—side by side—making it difficult. His shoulders are way too wide. Even when he tries twisting his torso to reposition himself, it’s just as uncomfortable. And impossible.
Maybe not for someone with experience, but it is for us, because Jackson has none.
All this is so new to him; I don’t want him to get discouraged and stop because we’re plopped on the bed like morons.
So.
I do the only thing a girl can do in this situation: shift out of the spot I’m in, get on my knees, and crawl over to him. Straddle his legs so we’re face t0 face, my ass resting on his thighs.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” His voice is gruff, and his hands? He’s not quite sure what to do with them. Nature takes over a few seconds later, though, and those big paws get planted on my hips. Gripping them gently, holding me steady.
“Is this okay?” I ask. “I feel like I’m manhandling you.”
“If I’d known you were this bossy…”
“You would have what?”
“Invited you over weeks ago.”
“You didn’t know me weeks ago.”
“But I know you now.”
Jackson is still, eyes fastened on my mouth. His chest heaves up and down, a physical sign his heart is racing—like mine is.
“You know…” I lean in close—so close. My loose hair hangs around my face, brushing his chest as I whisper, “At some point, you’re going to have to be the one to kiss me. I’m not going to make the first move all the time.”
He gives a definitive jerk of the head. “Deal.”
Then.
I kiss him.
Cup his beautiful face in my delicate hands and kiss him square on the mouth. My palms slide over his skin, relishing how warm it is. His ruddy cheeks, burned from the sun. Freckles on the bridge of a nose that looks like it’s been broken in a few places and probably has.
I kiss the freckles. I kiss the sunburn.
The corner of his bushy eyebrow, first one, then the other. They’re dirty blond, like he is, and unkempt—like he is. Jackson needs a haircut, and I weave my fingers through the longish locks, pulling them back as if I’m going to tie them with an elastic band.
I have one on my wrist, but I don’t use it, instead letting his silky strands slip through. Again. And again.
My body dips so my lips can kiss the column of his neck, just below his ears, and Jackson groans when they make contact. Mouth brushing along the sensitive skin just below the lobe. Give it a teasing nip and suck.
“Do you like that?” I whisper.
His reply is a jerky nod.
I can feel him getting hard, the valley between my thighs settled straight on his dick; he’s wearing thin athletic pants that do nothing to conceal the erection, and I wish I’d worn yoga pants and not denim.
So I could feel every inch of it.
Our mouths connect again, this time because Jackson can’t wait to taste me. Bless his hands, they begin to wander, straying up my ribcage, thumbs spanning, flirting with the sides of my breasts.
His movements are a little rigid and jerky, as if he’s not quite sure what he’s allowed to do, as if waiting for me to yell at him.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes.” Higher, as a matter of fact, and to the left.
Touch my boobs, touch my boobs, touch my boobs…
He doesn’t.
His mouth is perfection, tastes delicious, if that’s considered a thing—like minty toothpaste, saliva, and need. If Jackson has never kissed anyone before, I never would have guessed it. Either that or we were meant to be together.
I want his lips everywhere.
Patience, Charlie…
Little by little, my hips rotate. Little by little, I watch Jackson’s expression go from one of wonder to one of…bliss. And agony.
His eyes close when I line us up and grind gently, my head tipping back as I mimic riding him on top. Even though we’re both wearing bottoms, I can still feel the head of his dick creeping up inside me. It’s deliciously old school and I feel like I’m in high school again, making out with my boyfriend in his parents’ basement, listening for the sound of them coming along to bust us.
But no one does.
It’s just me and Jackson and a locked door in a college rental. No one is going to bust us; there are no parents here.
His friends didn’t bat an eye when I walked through the living room, and if they thought it was strange Triple J was finally having a girl up to his room, no one said a word.
Maybe they’ll give him shit for it later; maybe they won’t.
I grind.
I grind and bite my lower lip, closing my eyes for a second—crack them open again to watch Jackson close his. His head is against the headboard, mouth falling open, heavy brows bent in concentration. Or pain.