Andi licks into my mouth and settles a hand on my hip, fingertips sneaking under the waistband of my jeans, the backs of her knuckles against my skin. My breath stutters at it, my hand at her waist, thumb moving over the spot where the elastic of her tights digs into her. I can feel it through her dress, can feel the exact shape and dimensions of what she’s got on underneath, and it makes me dizzy.
After a little while she pulls back, wide-eyed and red-lipped and breathless. The fabric of her dress is twisted between my fingers, I realize, and I’m tracing over the outline of a garter on her tights, and my skin feels electrified. I’m so hard it hurts. We shouldn’t be here.
“Someone’s gonna find us,” I remind her.
Andi shrugs. “And?”
“And we’d get caught.”
“We’re two grownups kissing.”
I run my thumb over her garter again, my brain sparking like a downed power line. “It’s public lewdness,” I say. “Or something.” As if I’ve ever had to consider what sort of misdemeanor making out in public is before.
Andi gives a little grin and steps closer, between my legs, somehow, her body warm and solid against my very present erection. I don’t groan, but I have to bite my lip.
“This isn’t public or lewd,” she points out. “Yet.”
Yet? Fuck. I take her by the hips and run my thumbs down the front of her garters so I don’t think about yet too hard.
“I like your tights.”
“You said.”
“I can’t compliment you twice?”
Andi presses harder against me and mouths at the hinge of my jaw, heat and teeth and tongue.
“I like your shirt,” she says, laughing.
“Thank you.”
“I like your jeans, too,” she says, and ghosts a palm over my dick, trapped behind the zipper. I grit my teeth so I don’t demand more right now, because fuck, fuck we’re still in this gym.
“I like your,” I start, my hands now under her skirt. My fingers sink into the soft flesh at the tops of her thighs, the spot where the stocking cut into her a little, and I pull her into me. There’s some gentle dry humping. I fail to think of a word that might finish my sentence, but I don’t think it matters because her teeth are on my collarbone and it doesn’t matter that she’s being gentle and it doesn’t matter how easily I could overpower her, I feel pinned against this wall.
When she pulls back a little I capture her mouth again and she’s plastered against my front, her heat singing along my nerves. I had an objection but I can’t think of it anymore, not when she’s rubbing against me and pressing me into this wall and not when her fingers are tugging at the zipper of my jeans. I realize my hands are on her ass and her skirt’s hiked up around her waist, the blue in her eyes nearly swallowed by black when she looks up at me.
“I think this is lewd now,” she says, and gets her hand around my dick. I have to close my eyes and tilt my head against the wall and breathe, fucking breathe, Gideon, most people got their first handjob behind the bleachers before they were old enough to vote.
“We should go home,” I say, and it’s true but I don’t mean it. Andi slides her thumb along the head of my dick, the fabric moving with it, and I break into a full-body shiver.
“Or,” she says, and I slit my eyes open. She sounds rough and velvety. “It’s an hour back to your place, right? And we wouldn’t get out of here right away, so more like an hour and a half. You’ve gotta get the cat scratcher or whatever. But,” she glances over one shoulder, like she’s casing the joint. “I bet I can find a room with a door that closes in under two minutes.”
It shouldn’t send a bolt of heat charging through my body, but it does. There’s the usual low, constant drum beat of this is wrong but my reasons are bad but this wrong for real reasons, like we could get caught and this might actually be illegal. Even if it’s not likely. Even if I doubt we’ll get arrested. I should adjust myself and stop looking at Andi’s devilish face and insist we make the long drive back to Sprucevale so we can do this in a bed, behind a locked door.
But Andi is adventure and excitement, heat and promise. It’s always been like this with us, Andi pulling me along to places I wanted to go and didn’t know to ask for. As kids we’d find a fence or a property line or a No Trespassing sign and she’d say, do you wanna? And I’d always say, yes.
So, I should say that’s a bad idea but instead I say, “You think so?” and she laughs.
The third door she tries opens, we shove through it. The room smells like rubber and leather and old wood and it’s dark as the grave, but I can still feel her smiling as her hands grab fistfuls of my shirt and pull me in. We bump together too hard in the dark.
“Ow,” she says, and then laughs, softly. “Hold on, where’s the—”
“Wait, don’t,” I say, voice low. “Too visible under the door.”
I take my phone from my pocket and turn on the flashlight, blinking. We’re in an equipment room, I think, shelves piled with basketballs and soccer balls and nets and those small orange cones, a metal crate of volleyballs and a stack of blue mats against the back wall.
I put my phone on a shelf, flashlight aimed at the ceiling, casting everything in strange, slanting shadows. Andi leans against the mats, half-sitting, legs wide enough to make her skirt ride up and show off the garters.
“I’m starting to think you have a flashlight fetish,” she says, head tilted to one side.
“If anything, I have a seeing what I’m doing fetish.”
“Weird,” she teases, and I step between her legs and kiss her again. This time it’s desperate and hot, her hand grabbing the front of my shirt, the other palming my cock through my jeans again. I get her under the thighs and hike her up onto the mats properly so she can wrap her legs around my hips.
“You look good like this,” she says. “I wanted to tell you. This fucking shirt.”
Her hand is on my dick again and I grind into it, swallowing a groan.
“My shirt?” I manage, and she laughs breathlessly.
“I don’t know,” she says, and her skirt’s around her waist now, and she’s wearing black lace underwear, too, and—God. Andi planned this. Hours ago. Getting ready in her bedroom at her aunt’s house she thought about how she wanted tonight to go and she put on garter tights and black lace. No one has ever been luckier than me. “It just—shows off your arms and your shoulders look ridiculous and then you rolled up the sleeves and were just, like, standing around with forearms,” she says.
I don’t know what she’s talking about, but I plant my thumb on black lace, right where I figure her clit is, and circle it. I must be right because she makes a noise and her head goes back, her throat working. When I kiss her again she groans softly, so I take a second and push my fingers under the lace, where she’s hot and slick and pushes her hips into me.
“Fuck, Andi, you love this,” I say, and even in the bad light I can see that she’s flushed pink, her lips parted, her eyes glazed. I lean in even closer, push her thighs a little further apart with my other hand, and she arches her back, breathing hard. “You wanted it.”