Scrambling blindly beneath the covers, he fidgeted at the buttons of her jeans until she helped out, wriggling her hips and stomping down rolls of denim with her boot soles. He dug past the curtain of her sweatshirt, and now, not only blind but clueless, he reached between her legs. The heel of his palm pressed against her pelvis. His middle and index fingers made exploratory strides, like a sprinter testing for traction on ice. When the pad of his middle finger found a ridge, a crease, the rest of him snapped rigid. He grazed her, as astonished by the damp heat it appeared he was provoking as he was terrified of somehow hurting her. He’d always shuddered when the skinnies referred to vaginas as gashes or hatchet wounds, but now he sort of got it, and so now he had to be gentle.

“Oh, come on,” she said.

She smacked the top of his dainty hand, driving him inside her up to the webbing of his fingers. She gasped, let out a hungry groan, then bit his collarbone—hard.

He yelped. The sound went unmuffled by the movie’s soundtrack since, so occupied by his earlier dejection, he’d forgotten to leave the truck’s radio on.

“Puss,” she said.

“Am not.”

“Shut up.”

She disappeared under the quilt, rummaging. An empty boot humped out from the covers, then another, and last the wad of her blue jeans. Wearing the bese saka shawl like a cape, she squatted over him, her twiggy legs so pale they were luminous. She spat into her hand, greased the head of his cock, then guided it into her. Clearly not her first time, and so he decided to pretend—no, prove—it wasn’t his either.

Awe and pleasure were quickly swallowed by shock when he reached under her shirt and sandwiched her waist, his thumbnails and fingertips meeting each other over her spine and navel. She was so petite, but still he couldn’t control her unruly sinew. He tried wrenching her in place to slow the hot-slick strokes she was making with her squatted hops, so he could last just a little bit longer, past the movie’s opening scene at the very least. Her instinct was resistance, a rejection of his will—she pressed her hands flat against the cab’s rear window for extra support, leverage, working him and herself even harder, even faster. With each thrust, she alternated between Fuck yeah and Fuck me, which wasn’t exactly helpful in terms of prolonging this. As much as he hated her nickname for him, it sort of helped when she now sputtered, “Hen.”