Hishands spread out over my back, pressing my body against him with desperationand need. And I felt it, the extent of his lustful want, pulsing between us andagainst my belly. It was another awakening, as real as the bitemarks now on myneck and the hair on his chest, that the boy I knew was gone and had beenreplaced by this man. My pulse quickened, mingling with a flutter ofinhibition, and I dipped my forehead to his shoulder. Coaxing my lungs to calmand wishing my heart to relax before it gave out.
“Jesus,Molly …” His fingers moved over my waist and the full curve of my hips. Theannoying evidence of twenty pounds I could never seem to do a damn thing about.In the past, with other men, I’d take control, guide them, and give theirexploring fingers and mouths something else to do. But I let Chad feel. Iallowed his wandering hands to mold to my butt, to squeeze and dig hisfingertips into my flesh. I shut my eyes to ward off any possible scrutiny, ordisappointment that I wasn’t a waif of a girl, like what he was used to. But heonly groaned, putting his desire on unabashed display, and said, “I need youout of these jeans.”
Inodded against his chest and moved my hands to my waist. But he took my fingersin his before I could pop the button. “Let me do it?” It was a question askingfor my permission, and in reply I whispered, “Okay.”
“Here,”he instructed, positioning my hands on the front of his hips, near the buttonand fly of his jeans. “You do mine.”
Itwas a simple command, given with a lustful hunger that made it easy to comply.But there was a sweetness in the act too, as our hands shook and fumbled withnervous anticipation. Neither of us were virginal, but this moment felt like along-awaited unveiling of just how different boys and girls really are. Almostsynchronized, we watched our movements, the unbuttoning and unzipping, and witha trembling grasp, cumbersome jeans were pulled down and then off to meet ourshirts on the floor.
Now,only in underwear, there seemed to be too many clothes. Too much was coveredand too much was yet to be seen. And God, I wanted to see his body inall ofits exquisite detail, everything I’d already knownand the parts I couldn’t remember from when we were toddlers in the samebathtub. But seeing meant turning on the light. Seeing him also meant forhimto seeme.
“Youokay?” he asked, taking note of my hesitation.
Icould’ve lied, but I wouldn’t. Not with him. “Iwannasee you better.”
“Okay.I’ll turn on the—”
Istopped him from getting up. “But I’m nervous.”
“You’renervous aboutseein’ my dick?” he gently teased.
“No,”I groaned, rolling my eyes. “I’m nervous about youseein’me.”
“Why?”
“’Cause…” Was I reallygonnagothere? Was I really going to ruin this moment with talk of cellulite andstretch marks? “I don’t like my body.”
Chad’shands went to my face and hair, smoothing, soothing and pressing his foreheadto mine. “Molly, you have an incredible—”
Ishook my head. “You haven’t seen me. Not like this.”
Henodded hesitantly and stood from the bed before I could stop him. He flippedthe switch, flooding the room with light, and although my initial reactionwould’ve been to yell at him and hide beneath the covers, I didn’t. Mywandering eyes were too occupied with taking him in. The lean curve of hard-cutmuscle and the glint of piercings. Then, the mural of ink encompassing thegreater part of his torso and legs. The pronunciation of his ribcage stung,knowing that it wasn’t intentional for him to be so thin but was a symptom ofhis disease, but all in all, he was beautiful. Breathtaking, even, and my handsfluttered to my chest. Then, to my breasts that had always felt too big, tooweighted, toosaggy, and I wonderedwhy it couldn’t be more even between us. Why it couldn’t bemorefair.
“Iknew it,” he finally said after a too-long silence.
“What?”My voice was so pathetic and meek to my ears.
“God…” He shook his head and swallowed. “I’ve told you before, but now I can sayfor sure. There is absolutelynothin’wrong withyou, Molly.”
Mamahad told me once when I was younger, while venting about my father, that mostmen just want to get laid. She told me they’d say anything, whatever they hadto, to get what they wanted. I heard her words now, resounding through my mind,but that’s not what Isaw.
WhatI saw was a man, kneeling before me on my bed. His face was painted with onlyemotion and appreciation as tears welled in his eyes. His hands reached out tocup my cheeks and pull me toward his waiting lips. But he didn’t kiss me. Hejust held me there, with his chest pushed against mine and our hearts marchingin time with each other.
Hisbrow dipped to mine, his breath whispered across my skin, and he said, “I hate that you feel like this. I hate that I failed you.”
“Failedme? What areyoutalkin’ about?”
He shook his head andtightened his grasp in my hair. “I should’ve defended you. I should’vebeen there. But instead, I was toofocused on myself and not enough ontellin’ you howfuckin’ perfect you are. Because youare, Molly. You always have been.And I hate myself forplayin’ any part in how badlyyou feel about yourself.”
Ishook my head, clasping my hands against his face. Holding on and holdingtight. “You didn’tfail me. I neededto learn to defend myself. I couldn’t always hide behind you.”
Swallowing,he took my words and reluctantly nodded. Then, he said, “Well, regardless, Iwant you to know now, youareperfect. And I’m nevergonnalet you forget that.”
Hekissed me sweetly; a prelude to his hands moving from my hair to the hookedclosure on my bra. It sprang free, the straps sliding from my shoulders, and Iresisted the instinct to cover myself with my arms. Chad’s body pressed gentlyagainst mine, urging me to lay back, and I complied. His weight over me wassatisfying, and the kiss deepened. A step away from frantic, our tongues tiedtogether until his taste became my own, and my thighs parted to welcome thebreadth of his hips, and his hands acquainted themselves with my breasts.
Hebroke the kiss to move his way down my neck, and I closed my eyes to his mouthon my chest. Gasping and sighing in response to the suction of his lips and thenips of his teeth. My fingers ran across the short length of his hair,remembering a time when it was longer and nearly in his eyes. He’d never lookedbad, but this … This was manly and militant. It was a contradiction to hissweet albeit protective demeanor, and to call it sexy would’ve been anunderstatement.
Heworked downward, taking his time treasuring the parts of my body I worked onand didn’t yet love. I made myself watch, forcing myself to acknowledge thatChad wantedme. I dared myself toobserve the gratitude he held for my body, and I witnessed the painstakingremoval of my last piece of clothing: a black thong. His movements were slow,purposeful and precise. He wanted to savor this, and so did I.
