At my silence, he quickly added, “I mean … I completely understand if you’ve changed your mind.”
I heard what he was saying but his eyes and body were practically begging for me not to change my mind. I smiled up at him. “Are you nervous?”
“What? Who? Me?” he squeaked.
My lips stretched wider as I grew more relaxed. “Yeah—you.”
“No. Of course not. Don’t be silly,” his voice squeaked so high this time that it cracked. He quickly coughed to cover it up, but the damage had already been done.
I struggled but I didn’t laugh. “Actually, I kind of like it that you’re a little nervous.” “You do?” he asked, astonished.
I nodded. “I’m nervous, too—and since this is our first time, why not be nervous together?”
A corner of Lyfe’s lips hitched up and a good number of my butterflies settled down.
“Why not?” He turned his head and pressed a kiss against the palm of my hand before meeting my gaze with the same intensity I leveled on him.
My thick, wavy long hair was spread about my head like a black halo. “Do you know that your skin has a natural starburst of mahogany in your cheeks?”
“It does?”
He nodded, staring at me like I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“And I love your eyes,” he said.
“You do?”
“Yeah. They get me every time. They’re a beautiful mosaic of colors that could easily seduce any man.”
“Stop it.”
“No. I’m being serious,” he insisted. “They’re a burnt brown when you’re angry, light sienna when you’re happy and simmering amber when you’re excited or turned on—just like they are right now.”
I blushed so hard it felt like a Nevada heat wave.
The three previous times that we had gotten that far or close to “doing it,” Lyfe claimed that he had already familiarized himself with every curve and dip on my luscious body. (That’s what he called it—LUSCIOUS!)
He said that he liked my little black beauty mark beneath my right cheek and even the small scar above my right knee that I’d gotten on a bad slide into home base when I was nine years old. (Of course he was the one that was blocking the plate!) Anyway, he said that it was the small things that make me perfect. ME—PERFECT. I could just die.
Lyfe Alton is the most romantic man in all of Georgia.
“I’m sure,” I said, panting and fluttering my lashes up at him. “I want to do this.” There are just no words to describe how his strong chest felt against my breasts—other than paradise, but I’ve used that word already.
As much as he wanted to play it cool and act like he knew what he was doing, I knew that he was just as scared as I was. After all, this was his first time, too. Last year, he kept saying that he wanted to wait until he was married to have sex. It is, after all, what my father always preaches. But this year, the last thing we’ve been thinking about is what was being said on Sunday mornings.
He told me that he’d been dreaming of this moment for a long time. He’d practiced poetic words in front of the mirror like a love-sick puppy. He’d endured endless teasing from his five older brothers, usually after being caught talking—or doing other things—while imagining a night just like this one.
I cupped the other side of Lyfe’s face with my hands. “Did you hear me? I’m really ready this time. I’m not going to change my mind.”
Lyfe blinked and then struggled to swallow the boulder in his throat. This was really about to happen. I could feel his heart galloping inside his chest. How long had he dreamed of this moment? Since sixth, seventh grade? He said he couldn’t remember anymore—just like he was struggling to remember all the pointers his older brothers had given him for when such a moment arrived.
“Condoms,” he blurted. “We’re supposed to use condoms.” Panicked, he glanced around to where he’d kicked off his jeans. After scrambling to retrieve them, he pulled out a sleeve of four condoms—but they sort of looked … old.
“How long have those been in there?” I asked, frowning.
“Not long,” he said, shrugging. “About a year … or so.”
I don’t know. I had a feeling that when we opened one that a dust cloud was going to float out.
A single worry line creased my forehead. Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out—again. But I couldn’t do that to him this time. After all, it wasn’t the first time that we had gotten this far—not the first time that I’d told him that I was ready only to then stop him at the last possible second and announce that I’d changed my mind. Each time, I’d apologized profusely while he struggled to get his dick back into his pants so that he could limp home and take another cold shower. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” I asked. He was taking a long time about opening the condom.
“Of course I haven’t changed my mind,” he said. “I just want to make sure that you’re really, really sure this time.” He kept my gaze trapped as he vainly tried to swallow his own Adam’s apple. “Are you sure?”
My lips spread into another smile while my hands reached for the condom. I boldly ripped the sucker open and then reached over and rolled it over his erection. My hands were trembling so bad. But as hard as he was, his dick still felt like smooth silk. (And it kept growing against my hand.) After fumbling around with it for about a minute, Lyfe finally reached down and helped roll the rest of it on. By that time, I’m wondering if I’m going to be able to fit all of him in. Surely something that big is going to hurt.
He must’ve heard my thoughts because the next thing Lyfe was saying was, “I heard that it should only hurt for like a few seconds and then it goes away.”
A few seconds? Please. He was talking to a girl who’s still afraid of needles. Again, I’m thinking about backing out, but a little voice inside of me keeps saying, “You can do this.”
“You’re still okay with this?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?” I lean up and brush a kiss against his lips and then I’m just lost. (I’ve told you countless times before about how good Lyfe tastes, and tonight was no different.) At some point, I reach out and boldly wrap my hand around his throbbing dick, and I swear nearly every ounce of air fled that boy’s lungs.
