Anything.

Everything.

My body hums, pulsing and clenching harder between my legs. Wanting him. Wanting more.

Ever since I moved to London, I dream up this one single memory when I want to get off alone. This one visual is enough to make me wet and come easily. So right now, I start to think about it again.

I think about the night I lost my virginity.

My hand dips down underneath the sheet. Underneath my pajama shorts. Under my panties. My fingers brush between my legs, breath hitching, and I feel the dampness.

Closing my eyes, I try to visualize every piece of that night. As if I’m back in my Philly bedroom.

Garrison thumbed my nipple, his mouth against the nape of my neck. Sucking a sensitive spot that quaked my sweaty limbs.

I remember the room. Bathed in candlelight, smelling of rose petals and vanilla. Soft music played in the background, and each touch between us felt tender, comfortable and wanted.

Our legs intertwined on the plush mattress. Fluffy blankets kicked aside.

He propped himself up on his elbow, and his hand traveled from my breast down the curve of my hip. Drinking in my bare body, and I soaked up his lean muscles that formed actual abs. Showing off his athleticism. I eyed his boxer-briefs, snug on his toned waist, and his dick pushed against the fabric.

Watching him made me calm down. I breathed and tried to stay out of my head.

Right now, I try not to remember how anxious I was. I don’t want to warp the best moment into one of total nervous awkwardness.

Back in my London dorm, I rub my clit. Remember, Willow.

I remember how Garrison did this thing—something he usually did if we were tangled up and making out. He tried really hard (pun intended) not to grind his erection into me. Like he didn’t want me to feel his hardness and pressure me to have sex if I wasn’t ready.

Even then, when we agreed that night would be the night he’d actually enter me—he still hovered over my body. Like it was just instinct at that point.

I trembled, a little anxious. Also hot with temptation and anticipation. I craved him so badly. Arousal ate me up inside, pulsated between my legs. Blazed the back of my neck. Aching, longing.

His hand veered over to the soft flesh of my stomach. Shirt and jean shorts already on the floor, his fingers stopped at the hem of my panties.

“Is this okay?” he whispered in my ear.

“Yeah,” I replied, voice raspy. He kissed my lips, urging them open slowly. I followed his lead, and his tongue slid sensually against mine.

I didn’t know where to put my hands.

Don’t remember.

But it’s hard to forget how my palms made uncertain, awkward movements. Usually I would hold his shoulders. That night, I wasn’t sure if I should touch his dick.

“Do you need me to…?” I started, but I didn’t even know what I was offering. A blow job? A hand job? Another sort of job I was unaware of?