Ask most of Pembrooke High, and Cassia Nolan wouldn’t be considered bold or brazen. But right now, she’s both. One knee lands on the bed, then the other. She takes a seat in my lap, directly on top of my hardening dick.

It’s the sexiest sight I’ve ever seen. Maybe—probably—because it’s her. Cassia’s hair hasn’t dried in its usual curls yet. It’s dark and wild, falling over her pale shoulders in messy waves. The white towel hugs the very top of her breasts, teasing at the cleavage beneath. Her legs are on full display, parted and pulling the towel up to the top of her thighs.

“What are you doing, flower?” I don’t mean for the endearment to come out, but it falls out of my mouth anyway.

Somehow, it adds to the anticipation. It’s an acknowledgment. I can’t treat Cassia with any of the separation I should. I can’t pretend she’s just another girl in a bedroom.

Rather than answer the question, she shifts. The towel pools around her waist, and her tits are right in my face. I’m sure she can feel how hard I am. How much I want this and how desperate I am to be inside of her. To be the only guy that’s been inside of her.

I’ve never slept with a virgin before. In the past, it’s been an unpalatable option. Extra work with added potential for a messy separation, which I know makes me sound like a dick. I know it’s a big deal to some girls, and it’s never been something I’ve felt equipped to handle.

Sex is a physical release for me the same way fighting is. I don’t attach any emotion to the act itself, I just enjoy the resulting adrenaline and endorphins.

But the thought of being the first guy that Cassia will be with? There’s something primal about it. Incendiary. It heats my blood and makes my cock so hard it’s painful. Destroys the indifference that’s usually unshakeable.

I grip the towel that’s the only barrier blocking her body, warring with myself. She shouldn’t be offering this. Because I’m selfish enough to take it.

Years. I’ve spent years trying to resist this pull between us. We landed here anyway.

“Are you sure?”

This time, she answers. “Yes.”

I scan her face. Features I know better than my own. I turned on the overhead light when we came in here. I wasn’t trying to set any sort of romantic atmosphere. Its bright glare reveals everything. I can see everything, from the green swirl in her hazel eyes to the freckle just below her jawline. The small scar just below the dip of her chin from falling off the monkey bars in sixth grade. The generous swell of the breasts I’ve jerked off to way too many times.

“Are you?” she asks. Her confident façade falters, insecurity saturating the two words. She’s not sure if I want this—want her. It’s a misconception I’m suddenly desperate to correct.