“Fuck!” I whimpered, digging my nails into his chest as hard and as deep as I could before running both hands over his skin all the way to his lower back, pulling him closer—as much as I was possibly able to.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Never,” I ordered, and he smiled again, this time proudly.

Whenever we weren’t kissing, he didn’t break eye contact once.

“This feels so good,” he said, sounding amazed.

A single drop of sweat clung to the tip of his thin nose, as still as he was.

“You feel so good,” he amended.

I ran my hands slowly up his back, and just as I did, he put his left hand on the right side of my face, gently caressing it before running his thumb over my lips.

“Can I move?” he quietly asked, still cupping my face.

I bit the tip of his thumb and nodded, slowly. The way he looked made it impossible for me not to stare. As much as I wanted to spend every possible second I could kissing him, he just demanded being admired. The way he moved, the way his skin started to glow as he sweat, and how it made his muscles seem even more defined when he flexed was pretty hypnotic. This first time was slow, gentle, and extremely intense.

I still had my nails carved deep into Ethan’s back as he held me so tightly it felt there was nothing I wasn’t shielded from.

“I think I left my phone downstairs,” he commented, still breathing heavily on my neck.

“Are you honestly thinking about your phone while still inside me?” I asked, insulted as fuck.

He chuckled. “It’s not like that.” He gave me a quick kiss on my right clavicle. “It’s just…what if your brother finds it and comes in asking you about it and catches us?”

“None of that will happen. And even if it did—this? This is worth the risk.”

He all but beamed. “It was pretty awesome.”

“Yes, it was,” I absolutely agreed.

“Can we go again?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and looking so fucking hot.

*

Ethan lay on his back while I was on my stomach, drawing an infinity symbol with my finger on his chest, over and over again.

“How old were you?” he quietly asked, looking up at the ceiling. “Your first time?”

“Fifteen,” I said, looking at him. “You?”

“Seventeen.”

“Recent.”

“Yeah. Were you in love?”

“No,” I was quick to reply. “Not really.”

“No?” He turned to me.

“Were you?”

He took the longest time before answering.

“I dunno,” he then said. “How can you be sure?”

“That you’re in love?”

“That you weren’t, at fifteen.”