I was so scared. A good scared. The kind of scared I felt climbing a steep hill on a rollercoaster. As he flicked his tongue against mine, a single finger inched beneath the crotch of my panties.

I fisted his hair as my breath hiked.

“Beautiful …” he whispered against my mouth, along my jaw, and down my neck. Over and over.

Beautiful … Beautiful … Beautiful …

Fisher. The first man other than my father to call me beautiful.

That finger? It moved a fraction of an inch, and I jerked. His finger, his entire body, stilled except for his lips at my ear, his breath whispering, “Make it feel good …”

Fear shook me. My faith. My fragile beliefs. I held my breath for few seconds like I did at the top of that rollercoaster hill. Then I kissed him. He didn’t kiss me.

I. Kissed. Him.

My pelvis moved just enough to rub my clit against the pad of his idle finger. I rocked it a little more until it touched me lower, where I was wet between my legs.

And not once did he move.

I kissed along his jaw and neck, feeling safe, feeling the slow building of my confidence as a woman.

My hips rocked a little harder until I realized what I was feeling … what I was rubbing … wasn’t so much his finger. It was his erection hard against me. The denim scratched my inner thighs, but I didn’t care.

“Fisher … m-move …”

“Move what?” he asked with so much control I thought I might die of my own impatience.

“E-everything. Just … move.”

His strong hands claimed my hips again, only this time, they gripped me a little harder, and he moved me over him.

He did it for me, and it felt so addictive I couldn’t formulate a coherent thought.

He did it for him, and his breaths grew more labored, his kisses more desperate.

I wanted nothing more than to know what it would feel like for him to be inside of me. “Fisher … I … I think I want you to take off your jeans.”

He reclined back onto my pillow and grinned as I leaned forward, resting my hands on his chest, my hair falling around my face and his.

“You don’t … not yet.” His eyelids grew heavy as his pelvis lifted from the bed.

Giving more.

Taking more.

Proving just how extra he was that day.

We weren’t having sex. But we were … having sex.

It was wrong. But it was right.

My head spun in dizzying circles as up became down and down became up, and nothing made sense, nor did I really want it to make sense.

And when it happened, that all-consuming, mind-numbing sensation, I gasped and hissed a “Yesss.”

Vulnerable.

Out of control.

Fear crept into my conscience. I didn’t want him to know how scared I felt, like a teenager trying to be an adult.