I lean forward, and he feeds the length of his cock into my mouth. I take more than I did before, but he’s too big for me to suck completely. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. His hands fist at his sides, tendons tensing in his forearms.

Holden’s jaw hardens and his breathing quickens. He groans. “I’m going to come,” he warns. “Cassia. I’m going to…”

I suck harder, and he trails off with another groan. This is stupid. I know what he’s telling me. I should take the out. What am I trying to prove? But I keep sucking, resolute in my decision.

He grunts, and my mouth fills with hot, salty liquid. I have to swallow twice before rocking back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Holden tracks my movements like an opposing player on the court, focused and intense.

I don’t know what to do. Movies and television shows don’t show this part. There’s a suggestive shot of clothes falling to the floor or a door closing or a light turning off, and then it’s the next day. There’s no awkward moment when you have to face the guy across the street slash your best friend’s brother slash your former crush after rounding third base on his couch.

Do people even still use baseball analogies to equate sexual experiences? Sydney is just as inexperienced as I am—was—and she’s the only person I’d consider asking, knowing she wouldn’t laugh at me.

Holden doesn’t make any move to cover himself. To move. He just sits and stares at me while I hold his gaze. In some ways, it feels more intimate than what just took place between us.

I’ve heard the stories at school. Seen the girls hanging all over him. Holden Adams is a notorious player. It’s a large part of the reason I’ve avoided high school parties. I don’t want to witness it. And that pisses me off, that I’ve allowed him to dictate so many of my decisions, while telling myself it was so that I could get into a good college and not have to worry about what to wear or what to say around my peers.

Right now, I’m equally annoyed that he’s giving me nothing to go on. No lead to follow. He’s supposed to be the certain one.

I reach for my t-shirt and pull it on. Then stand and slide my underwear on, followed by my sleep shorts. My limbs still feel shaky, the lingering memory of pleasure loosening my movements.

Holden pulls his pants up and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Um, I’ll head to—”

“You tired?” He cuts me off before I can get bed out.

I shake my head.