He reaches out, finding my shoulder first and sliding his hand up until he can cup my face. “You’ve got to trust me,” he says. “Trust me to take care of you, to make this good for you.”
His thumb catches at my bottom lip, and I close my eyes, almost trembling in the dark.
“Okay.”
He leans over to kiss me, catching just the corner of my mouth. “That’s my girl.”
My heart throbs, and I remember my drunken dream. Or what I thought had been a dream. He said the same thing then a few minutes before he said that he wanted my firsts. I’m tempted to ask if him if the memory is real, if he actually said that, but there’s a chance he’ll say no, and I’m not sure I can take any more self-doubt tonight.
With a steadying breath, I hook my fingers into the waistband of my pants and begin wiggling them off. Beside me, Torres hunches over and adjusts his seat, sliding it back as far as it will go.
When I’ve deposited my yoga pants on top of my spiral in the passenger seat, I ask, “Now what?”
“Now you straddle me.”
I let out a heavy exhale.
“You said you trusted me.”
“I do. I just . . .”
Straddle him? That’s a lot of trust.
“Think too much. I’m well aware. Now come here.”
Tentatively, I rise up on my knees, bending my head to keep from hitting the ceiling. I steady myself with a hand on his shoulder, and impatiently he takes hold of my thigh, tugging until I’ve got one leg on either side of him.
His shorts are cool and silky against my bare thighs, and goose bumps dance up my spine. His hands start at my knees, gliding up until his long fingers curl around the curve of my ass. This close, I can see the glint of his eyes and the shape of his mouth. Even sober, I still think it’s a really good mouth.
“Now listen to me. We’re alone. It’s dark. No one is going to stumble upon us, so you don’t need to think about any of that. No one can hear us, so you don’t need to keep your mouth closed or censor your reactions.” He tugs me forward until I feel his erection press insistently against my center. “And I want you so bad, it’s a miracle I was able to walk all the way here without taking you against the side of some building. Nothing you do or say is going to change this.” He pushes down on my hips, lifting himself up at the same time, and I catch my breath at the contact. “So you don’t have to be nervous about me either. You have absolutely nothing to think about. Nothing to worry over. And you don’t need to think about whether or not you’re going to come. I’m going to get you there. Trust me. Your job is just to feel. React in whatever way feels right to you. That’s it.”
I nod, but I’m not sure that’s a promise I can keep.
He kisses me, languid and hot, chasing away the gnawing panic that had overtaken me when he stopped in the library. His hands guide my hips, rocking me against his erection in time with our kiss. Under his guidance my hips roll, slow and steady, as if we have all the time in the world, and at the top of each roll, my clit grinds against him, and my limbs practically go numb. It feels like a dance, I realize. This isn’t something that follows a set pattern, there’s not list of correct things to do. It’s more like art, and with his hands teaching me, I realize I have to listen to my body, not my head.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he says. “I want to feel like you’re all the way around me.” I do, and it makes my chest drag over his with every pump of our hips. Even through all the layers, the grazing touch draws the tips of my breasts to a hard point.
He kisses me for a long time, tasting and sucking at my lips and my tongue. And just when I start to wonder when he’s going to really touch me, just when I start to long for it, his hand sneaks under the back of my shirt, and with one quick twist, he unhooks my bra. Then both his hands are gone from my hips, cradling my breasts instead. He kneads and squeezes, pausing every few seconds to roll my nipples between his fingers, and there’s a line of lightning directly between his hands and my sex. He continues kissing me the whole time, and I continue rubbing my center against his length. Desperation builds high enough that I have trouble maintaining a rhythm because I want to move faster and slower both at the same time.
When the buzzing between my legs is so strong that I’m panting and my hearing sounds like I’m underwater, he says, “Lean back. Keep holding on to my neck and lean back.”
I whimper, unwilling to stop the rhythm of our hips, but he grips my waist, moving me how he wants me. My bottom slides closer to him, until I feel the hard ridge of him nestled flat against me. If my arms weren’t around his neck and we weren’t in a vehicle, I could probably lie all the way back on his knees. When my arms are stretched taut, and my body is how he wants it, he reaches between us and passes two fingers over the damp fabric of my underwear. He does it again, this time pressing down against the sensitive nub at the top. I close my eyes and bite my lip, and his other hand tightens on my waist in response.
“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t withdraw. Look at me. Focus on me.”
I try, but looking him in the eyes makes my heart race unbearably fast. So fast it scares me, and I have to close my eyes. Have to.
“If you can’t look at me, then listen. Tune out everything else except for my voice. Concentrate on that.”
I close my eyes, deciding this is the much safer route. That is . . . until he starts talking.
“You’re so fucking wet for me, Nell. I wish I could describe what that does to me. It’s the best kind of misery, knowing I did that to you.” He pushes the fabric aside and eases two fingers inside me. “And God, you’re so tight. So unbelievably tight. Someday you’re going to take me here.” He pushes deeper inside to emphasize his words, and I gasp. “Are you listening to me, Nell? Are you with me?”
“I—I’m listening.” And dying because of it. Each time he touches me, each time he says something, it feels like I’m whispering against dynamite, like I’m a hairsbreadth away from utter destruction.
With his fingers still inside me, he circles his thumb against me, and I squeeze my legs against his hips.
“Don’t fight it. I know you want to tense, you feel like you have to prepare, but you don’t. Let it come to you. Let me bring it.”
I try to relax, try to loosen my legs and my arms and everything. I lean my head so far back that it touches the steering wheel. I just breathe. I don’t try to describe what I’m feeling, don’t try to catalog it. I don’t analyze what makes his touch so different from my own. I just let it wash over me.