“Why?” I ask, starting to feel better about the situation but now wondering what her point was with this entire conversation.
“Because I’m not going to have sex with you.”
I smile as the heavy ball of dread that was sitting in my chest disappears. She just wants to make sure we’re on the same page. It’s very responsible, and very Paige-esque, of her to set the rules up front. I should’ve known this was her angle. “I figured it was off the table.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“Yeah, sure.” Honestly, I wasn’t even considering going there with her. If her dad or Jernigan ever found out, I’m sure they’d kill me. Like literally kill me.
“Okay, good.”
“We’ll still kiss, right?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And, maybe, eventually a little more?” She has to realize there’s a lot of room for fun between kissing and sex. Or maybe not. Maybe I can be the one to show her.
“Like what?” she asks.
“Second base?”
“Which is?”
I give her a grin. “I get to touch your boobs.”
She cracks a smile in return, her white teeth sparkling beneath the neon star. “You want to touch my boobs?”
“Kind of.”
She peeks outside her car, twisting her head both ways, and then climbs off my lap and kneels on the floor. “Scoot back,” she says.
When I do, she closes the tailgate, giving us even more privacy. Not that we need it; no one else is anywhere near us.
It’s much darker in the car now, with the six thousand watts from the star being blocked by the door. I squint to try and read her face, but it’s impossible. Did she just give me permission to touch her boobs? My heart starts to beat a little faster at the idea.
“I didn’t necessarily mean right now,” I say. “Unless you’re feeling it.”
“You’re not feeling it?”
“I’m a guy. I’m always feeling it.”
Her hand lands on my shoulder, and then her lips catch the side of my mouth before sliding to the middle. She’s wearing peppermint lip balm again. I hate candy canes, but somehow it tastes different on her lips. I may actually start craving the candy if we keep making out. Good thing Christmas is right around the corner.
In a matter of minutes, the kissing turns serious and starts generating some intense body heat in the enclosed space. I peel off my jacket and flannel, leaving me in my white undershirt. Her lips pause, and her eyes roam down my body.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, loving the feeling of her checking me out. Compared to most guys at Wallingford, my body is nothing special, yet it seems like maybe she thinks it is. I don’t know why, but I’ll take it.
“I like how you make me feel,” she says.
I smile. “And how is that exactly?”
“I … I feel like I’m standing at the starting line of a cross-country race. There’s a tight, jumbly feeling in my stomach.”
“I give you a jumbly feeling?”
“Yeah.”
Most people would call it horniness, but I’ll take her lingo. It’s cute. With a chuckle, I say, “You give me the jumblies, too.”
She laughs and sits back on her heels, then removes her jacket and sweater, better revealing the silky shirt underneath with only tiny straps holding it up. It’s tight across her chest, and I feel second base summoning me.
With a gulp, I say, “For the record, I’ve got a bad case of the jumblies right now.”
“Duly noted. My one condition is our shirts stay on tonight.”
Aaaaand I just got tagged out, before I even attempted to steal second.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, giving her a perfect salute.
My eyes have adjusted to the dimness, and I catch her wrinkle her nose. “That’s creepy … and unnecessary since we’re off campus,” she says, moving the pile of clothes between us out of the way. “No saluting on dates.”
“You’re right.” It is creepy.
“Is it normal to talk this much while making out?”
“Not with my other girlfriends, but I’m enjoying it with you.”
She grins at me. “Did you just call me your girlfriend?”
Is it too soon to be thinking titles? Yes, definitely. But if I didn’t want that, I wouldn’t be here with her right now. She must realize it and feel the same. “Yeah, you know, a friend who is a girl who I happen to kiss, hopefully a lot. Not like an official title or anything,” I say, to downplay what we both must want.
“Got it. So you’re my first boyfriend—a friend who is a boy who I hope to kiss a lot.”
She totally wants the titles. “That seems about right.”
She takes my right hand and lays it on her chest over her silky shirt.
And I’m back in the game.
Using my other hand, I help her lie down while I hover over her, careful to not let my lower body touch hers. I’m fairly confident she’s not ready to think about certain parts of my anatomy, one of which is slightly more noticeable now than usual.
Our hands and mouths do their thing, and I’m impressed by her lack of shyness. She’s set the boundary but is more than willing to fully explore up to that boundary. Of course, I’m happy to oblige.
With the back seat down, there’s more than enough room for us to fully spread out. I’ve done some things in cars before, but it’s usually cramped and uncomfortable and cumbersome. Not my idea of a good time. This is luxurious.
“I’m becoming a big fan of your vehicle,” I say between kisses along her collarbone, easing her thin shirt down as far as I can with my chin.
“Archie is practical for a number of reasons.”
I tilt to the side and lean on one elbow. “You named your car Archie?” I ask as I sweep a strand of hair off her forehead.
“Yeah.”
“After the comic?” That doesn’t seem like her at all.
“No, after Alexander Vandegrift.”
“Who?”
“My favorite World War II general.”
The laugh escapes me without warning. What teenage girl has a favorite general? I probably couldn’t even name ten generals. “Who’s your favorite World War I general?”
“MacArthur, of course,” she answers seriously, obviously missing my sarcasm.
“Of course.” I make a face as though any other answer would be pure idiocy.
“We have about two minutes left,” she says. “Do you want to talk wars or kiss?”
I have a feeling she can do either equally well, but we have an hour-long drive back to campus during which we can talk. This will be our last chance to kiss for a while. “Kiss. Definitely kiss.”
I lower my mouth back to hers. Her lips part, but I can’t tell if she’s taking a breath or testing the waters. I barely dip my tongue in and wait to see her reaction. When she mimics me, I go a little farther.
She takes my hand in hers again and guides it under her shirt.
“Really?” I ask, surprised but thrilled with the development.
“Yeah. Strictly northern hemisphere, though.”
“There are some great geographical features in your northern hemisphere,” I whisper as I slide my fingers up her flat stomach until they reach the bottom edge of her bra. I follow it around to the back, searching for a hook, but it’s smooth, soft cotton.