“The last thing you said. About…me…with my mouth on your…your…I’ve never—I haven’t—”
“Not a shock. You don’t wanna do it, no big deal. You want to, I’ll let you.” He dragged his finger up to my…up to the part of me that sent shocks and shivers thrilling through me when he touched it. “Anybody ever do this to you? I mean at all, I don’t mean just…out here, like this.”
I could only shake my head. “Aside from me, no.”
“Then nobody’s ever gone down on you,” he stated.
“Oh my goodness, no way.”
“But you one hundred percentare nota virgin?”
I nodded. “One hundred percent. But…if there’s degrees of not-a-virgin, I would probably count as only barely not a virgin.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I got that part.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
He met my eyes as I stared up at him. “No, honey. Not laughing at you. Not in mockery or cruelty, at least.”
“But youarelaughing.”
“A little.” He touched that spot again, and I quivered. “Just because you’re so damn sexy and erotic and gorgeous it’s not even real, and you don’t even understand how incredible you are. You, barely a virgin? It’s crazy. I’d expect there to be a line of suitors a million miles long.”
He was touching me, the tip of his finger swirling in small circles, just so, in one particular spot way up high, and he clearly knew exactly what it would do to me, that it would make me gasp and that my knees would tremble and that my stomach and back would tighten and heat would pool low and deep in my belly. He clearly knew that I would sag against the fence as lightning blasted through me at his touch. He knew I would be weak, and grow incapable of supporting myself—he wrapped a hand around my lower back, clinging to me, holding me upright against his body. I stared up at him and breathed shakily as he kept going, touching, performing his sorcery.
I’d done this to myself under the covers frequently enough in my life, but this was utterly unlike the way I touched myself. That was experimentation and release of tensions, this was…sorcery. Magic.
“Baxter…” I breathed.
“Yeah, honey.”
I clung to his broad shoulders and let myself quiver and shake. “I’m…”
“Close?”
I nodded.
He grinned. “I know. I can feel it. I can see it.” He pulled his finger down and slid it deep inside me, slowly filling me, gathering the moisture of my desire and the heat of my impending detonation, and returned his touch to where it had been. “You’re squeezing. Clamping down.”
“I am?”
He slid his finger back in, and now used his thumb to rub that spot, and I felt myself, as he’d said, clamping down around his finger, squeezing and pulsing as I neared the edge, brought closer and closer by his touch.
“Feel that?” he whispered. “The way you squeeze? That means you’re close. And those little noises you’re making? Whimpering, gasping, all that? Means you’re getting even closer.”
He was right. I hadn’t been aware of it, but it was making all sorts of breathy little sounds.
God, this dream was crazy. I’d obviously fallen asleep on the plane, and my pent-up sexual frustration was making itself known. This was a dream—ithadto be: there was no way I was really doing this, letting a complete stranger put his finger inside my vagina, on a public street, three in the morning or not. No way. I wasn’t like that. With Thomas, the lights had always been off, and he’d only fumbled at my breasts for a moment, and we hadn’t even gotten totally undressed except for that first time after prom, and it hadn’t even really seemed real, just a quick few moments of feeling Thomas above me and feeling something inside me, a little too big, a little too much, and it had hurt a little but not terribly—just a quick, sharp pinch—and then it had started to feel not too unpleasant, and then there’d been a flurry of Thomas making noises and movements, and then it had been over. He’d gotten dressed and popped a bottle of champagne and given me a glass as I held the sheet against me.
That was sex, to me. That, even that, hadn’t seemed real.
This, with Baxter, felt even less real.
Thus, it was a dream.
I would never, ever, in a million years,everdo this for real. I wasn’t this daring, this rebellious. I was a good girl. I got good grades, I had the right friends, wore the right clothes. My only disobedience in my whole life was my major at Yale.
If anyone knew that I was even having this dream? God. And if, somehow, this wasreal? Oh god.
