Knox unfolds the blanket and gestures for me to sit, so I do, my knees folded tight against my chest. He does the opposite and lays out next to me, stretching his legs and propping himself up on his elbows. Our positions echo the way we sat out on the courtyard the other day, but so much has happened since then. It’s all moving way too fast, and none of it aligns with my plans, but, for once, I just want to have fun, even though it’s not the sensible thing to do. Knox is intoxicating—I can’t get enough of him and that should be a red flag.
I’ve had sex before. A couple times last year with a guy who played football for my school in Jersey. And twice the year before with a guy who lived in our apartment complex. He was a little older, maybe nineteen. It was fine. Good, even. I have no traumatic first-time stories to tell. I liked the way it felt, and I was lucky enough to be with guys who knew what they were doing. I’d give it a solid 8/10, would recommend.
But the kiss I shared with Knox eclipsed every sexual experience I’ve had in my eighteen years. I’d forgo full-on sex for the rest of my life if I were guaranteed to get kissed like that every day. It was a full-body experience and I’m ready to taste him again, so I turn to my side and stretch out next to him. He’s not tall for a guy, but he’s got five or six inches on me. The height difference all but disappears when we’re lying next to each other like this. Sensing my need to be close, he pulls me toward him and rests my head on his chest.
“Your body feels so good next to mine,” he tells me, his voice rough and rumbly and sexy.
I run my hand over his chest and down his muscled arms. “We probably shouldn’t do this,” I say, though there’s no real conviction behind my words.
He puts one hand on my hip and his touch is electric—I can feel it radiate through my body as he rubs gentle, sweeping circles over my ass. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to do,” he assures me, his eyes seeking mine.
“That’s the problem,” I blush. “I want to...do stuff, but…”
“But what?” he asks, a teasing tone in that deep voice I’m beginning to love.
“But we should talk.”
“Fantastic. I love talking. Actually, that’s a lie. I hate talking to most people, but you’re different. Talking to you is easy, effortless. So, let’s get to it. What should we talk about?”
“Your body,” I blurt, because his body is sucking up what little attention span my brain has left.
“My body? Christ.” He chokes out the words and moves his hand for a moment. I think he’s, holy heck, I think he’s gripping his dick. He closes his eyes tightly, then reopens them and looks at me, his hand returning to my waist.
“You’re killing me. But let’s do it. Let’s talk about my body. Anything specific you want to mention? Like all the ways my body is so very different from your body? Like, mine’s so hard,” he presses me close, “and yours is so soft. Is that what you want to talk about?”
God, I don’t want to talk at all, especially when he leans down and touches his lips to mine, biting softly before entering my mouth with his tongue, hot and hungry. I revel in his touch then pull back.
“Your tattoos,” I say. “Tell me about them.”
He shrugs. “I like my topic better, but ok…”
I shake my head, a teasing smile crossing my lips. “You’ll like this idea. Take your shirt off so I can see the rest of them.”
He sucks in a breath. “Gladly.” Tugging the shirt off his lean frame, he rolls it into a ball and tucks it behind his head. I prop myself up, fascinated by the colorful ink that brands his arms and chest.
I’m like a kid in a candy store—totally enamored and entranced by each image I see. “What’s this one,” I ask, pointing to the fire that spans his shoulder, and the stack of books that sit in the center of the flames, seemingly untouched.
“That’s for my best friend. He’s been through some shit with his family. They’re...not good people. But he’s not like them. He won’t be tainted by their ugliness. He’s going to be okay. Might take a while, but he’s one of the best people I know. He’ll get there.”
Just below the flames, I see waves and an anchor. “Is that for him, too?”
“Nah, that’s for Whit, the third member of our four-person crew. It’s...not my story to tell, but he’s probably had the roughest go out of all of us. But he’s strong, steady. He doesn’t see himself that way, but we do. He’s the one who anchors us—who keeps us all together. And right below that? See the cross-shaped one?”
I look where he’s pointing and see the tattoo. “It looks more like a star to me. But maybe that’s because you don’t strike me as the religious type.”
“I’m not,” he huffs out a laugh. “But Booker is. Well, he was raised that way, but he’s more spiritual than religious. I saw this image and immediately thought of him. At first glance, it’s a cross, but you’re right, on closer inspection, the edges fan out a little and make it a star. That’s him. He’s the purest of us, no doubt, and he guides us, because admittedly, we can be wayward fuckers.”
I can tell there are stories there, but the sun is setting, and I’d rather spend my night exploring his body than hearing his tales. But just as I trace my hand across his chest, another tattoo catches my eye. Right there, next to his heart, is a rose. “Who’s this one for?”
He looks and laughs. “That’s not for anyone but me, I guess. I always really wanted ink, you know. I like the way it looks, and as crazy as it sounds, I wanted to know how it felt, if the pain was as good as I imagined it to be. Spoiler alert,” he says, gesturing across his body, “it is. I was seventeen when I got this. Too young to get it legally, but I had a fake ID, so my friend found this hole-in-the wall place. I was so nervous; I nearly pissed myself. I got situated in the chair and the artist, this badass, biker-looking dude, asked to see the art I wanted. But I hadn’t chosen anything. He told me first-timers usually get a rose which is why it’s cliché as fuck, or something with the wordMomin it. There was no fucking way I was inking my mom’s name on my body, so the rose won. It’s silly, I guess, but I kind of love it now. I mean, yea, it’s not exactly original, but it reminds me that I did what I wanted regardless of what anyone said or thought. For most people, roses signify beauty or love, but for me, this rose symbolizes shutting off the noises in my head and doing what I need to do for myself, you know. Fuck the haters; I got shit to do.”
Knox keeps a slow, steady rhythm smoothing his hand over my waist, my hip, and my ass. I lean into him and trace the bare line just above his jeans. His breath catches, and he looks at me. “You want to keep talking?”
“No,” I say.
He skims his hand up my side and cups my breast. “Then what do you want to do?”
“This,” I tell him, unsnapping the button on his jeans and dipping my fingers into the waistband of his boxers.
