His tongue finds mine, and somehow—somehow—they dance together sensually and in perfect unison, like we’ve practiced it before. He is an excellent kisser, pulling me into a swirl of passion that makes me blind with need. I feel my panties becoming damp and sticking to my body. This kiss, this kiss is everywhere, down to my curled toes, and just when I’m starting to believe in his orgasm-from-a-kiss silent promise, he lets go of my wrists and pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You didn’t make me come,” I rasp through swollen, numb lips. It’s more of an accusation than a taunt. Almost a whine.

“Are we going to sleep together tonight, Rory?” he asks seriously, looking away.

“It…it’s not your turn to ask a question,” I stutter.

He is the most direct person I’ve ever met, and I don’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll owe you one. Now answer.”

This time, he turns to look at me, and our eyes meet in the dark. The grass is crisp and dewy, even under the blanket. It’s chilly, but for once, that’s not the reason goosebumps blossom all over my skin. My breath catches in my throat. Jesus.

“I want to,” I confess.

The muscles of his neck move when he swallows.

“But we shouldn’t, should we?” I whisper. “Not when we already like each other so much.”

“I don’t know,” he rasps. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what you feel like.”

His hand drags down to my neck, wrapping around it, and he leans forward, kissing me so softly, I shudder from the delicacy of his touch. His tongue slides into my mouth, and he rolls on top of me, his hands caressing every inch of my body—my arms, my shoulders, my waist, my stomach…my breasts. He bunches my jacket and hoodie up and flicks a puckered nipple through my shirt. I’m wearing a sports bra, but the chill and the moment make everything in my body impossibly tense and erect and needy.

We groan at the same time, so he flicks it again. Then he moves back up to kiss me, and we smile into each other’s mouths. I don’t know how it happens, but all my upper layers—jacket, hoodie, top—find themselves thrown beside us. He unclasps my bra with one hand, while shoving the other into my corduroys.

“Anyone ever touched you there?” he asks, brushing his middle finger along my slit. I jolt in pleasure, clenching everywhere.

“Yeah.” My mouth waters.

“And like this?” He dips his finger into me, and we can hear how wet I am. I turn maroon between his arms.

“Hmm-mm. My ex-boyfriend, Taylor.”

“Did Taylor do this, too?” He drags his wet finger to my clit, massaging it in slow circles.

I throw my head back, closing my eyes. It’s not that Taylor didn’t know where to touch me. I’ve just always felt too removed from the moment to fully enjoy it. Like I was putting on a sexy act. This? I feel this. Everywhere. I’m delirious, hot and wet underneath him. Mal takes my left nipple into his mouth and sucks. Stars explode behind my eyelids like fireworks. Everything tightens with delight. I like that he thinks about me first. I like that he is still fully clothed. I like that he knows exactly what he’s doing—even if that means he’s practiced on other girls. On many girls, no doubt.