She stops moaning. Stops moving.
I stop cold, my heart beating out of my chest. Shit. What just--?
She takes my hand and guides me back down between her legs, happy to remind me of what I was just doing.
“I’ve never been kissed there,” she says, her words a whisper. “And yes. God, yes, I want you to.”
Jesus. I keep the rhythm we started together with my left hand and move, so I can settle in between her thighs. I pull myself close, burying my head against her soft skin and laving kisses along her folds. She settles her feet on either side of my back, knees high, toes digging into the mattress. I could stay like this for hours, eating her, devouring her, kissing and licking and tasting her.
Her cries urge me on as she twists her fingers in my hair, tightening her grip on the short strands. She needs this and I need to give it to her.
“Oh, God. Ty. Yes. Please. Don’t stop. Don’t. Stop.” Her breath hitches as I trace her clit with my tongue then press the flat of it against her. Damn. This drives her crazy and I want to do it every day for the rest of my life.
I ramp up the pressure of my fingers, eager to get her to fall over the edge. She cries out for me again, and I thrust two fingers inside her, crooking them just as I hit that most sensitive spot. Her orgasm explodes on my tongue as her moans fill the air.
Long, delicious moments later, I slide back in place next to her after grabbing a blanket and a warm, wet washcloth. I take care of her and then wrap her up and curl in close.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I’m 100% certain that’s my line,” she replies.
“Nope. It’s mine. And not in some doucheyI’m grateful you gave me that giftway. Nope. I’m thanking you because you taste fucking delicious.”
“The things you say, Ty Marshall…” She shakes her head. “Your words do crazy things to me. And so do your hands. And your mouth.”
“Pretty sure I’ve found my new hobby.”
“If you liked that, I have lots of other ideas for how we can spend our time.”
The weight of what we’ve done, where we’re clearly headed, finally settles into focus in my brain. “Phoebe--”
“I want you to make love to me, Ty. I’ve never done that with anyone else. I--”
“What?”
“Ugh. It’s so cliché, right? I had big plans for prom night. Hardly original, but here we are. But everything happened with my brother a month before, and Lord, my whole world just fell apart. I remember Jeremy was pissed when I said I wasn’t going to prom. It hurt--it actually hurt to be in a crowd, to be around people. My heart hurt. My head hurt. The noise made my ears ring. So, yeah, sue me for just wanting him to come over instead of donning a tux and dancing the night away mere weeks after Dylan died. Anyway, he never came over. He asked some girl in our physics class and she said yes. I stopped going to school after that and I finished online. I never walked across the stage at graduation. They mailed my diploma. God. I’m sorry. Way to ruin a moment, right?”
“No. No, it’s fine. Jeremy sounds like a tool.” My words are right, but my head is spinning. “I can’t have sex with you, Phoebe,” I tell her, because those are the only words my brain is sending to my mouth.
“What? That’s crazy? Why? You just had your head between my legs, Ty.”
“It’s just...it’s a lot. So soon. And that's a big step. And it should really mean--”
She sits up abruptly and turns so she’s fully facing me. “Whoa. Who are you and what have you done with Ty? Where’s the guy who loves Jane Austen and railed on for twenty minutes about the sexist misogynist society she was forced to live in?”
“That’s some bullshit, Phoebe. We’ve been through this. What the hell? Women couldn’t inherit land because they didn’t have dicks? How is a dick a prerequisite for owning a home?”
“There’s my guy.” She smiles. “Shouldn’t you be telling me virginity is a social construct instead of warning me off?”
She’s got a point.
“It is a social construct. But still.”
“Bullshit.”
“Can we at least take it slow?” I ask.
“Oh, my God.” She rolls her eyes. “Fine, Ty. I won’t rush you into taking my V-Card. God. Who knew you were a prude?”
