I skimmed up the warm skin of her back until I reached her bra, and I held her close so the pressure of her thigh pressing between my legs wouldn’t leave. Her shirt bunched around her stomach, and because of the beauty that was my crop top, our bare midriffs stuck to each other, only intensifying our kiss. While she held herself up with one hand, the other ran over my stomach, feeling each ab before grazing my sides and down to the top of my skinny jeans. My pulse twitched faster, goose bumps broke out on my arms, and my chest tightened in a buzzing fervor. When was the last time my whole body experienced these kinds of sensations? I hadn’t been touched by a girl in months, and even then, they weren’t able to make every sense as heightened as if I’d ingested some magical drug.
Our passion had been a sleeping bear. Once it awoke, it came in the form of hands wandering. I took in each curve and detail of her skin, relishing in the faint noises fleeing from her, the way her tongue explored mine, feeling my lips reddening and swelling from the immense desire I had. As the kiss progressed, I started remembering the way her lips used to dance. She still kissed the same, ravenous and needy but gentle and reverent, and it was the latter that sent me soaring, feeling the indelible emotions she still seemed to have, but with a few acquired techniques, like nibbling on my bottom lip and sucking on my tongue, which created another wave of warmth running through me. And the way she held my cheek, and her thumb twitched in a soft graze on my neck, then stopped, almost as if she became conscious of the intimacy and thought it might be too much. But I wanted that intimacy as much as I wanted her passionate aggression. I wanted all of it with her.
Her hips started to undulate, and her movements lit me up in an amazing intoxicating feeling. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel enough, she latched on to the button of my pants. She flung it open, pulling away from my mouth and watching me as she slowly unzipped. Staring at me as if asking permission, she grazed underneath my underwear, skimmed the top of my center. Her touch elicited a murmur that I tried to hold back, but that steady eye contact and the determination in her stare made it so hard. She slipped her fingers inside me with ease, and I buried my head in the pillow. This time, I wasn’t able to mute my noises. An unbridled cry bellowed out that only encouraged her to move in insistent strokes.
Having the touch of another person fogged any sort of clarity I’d been focusing on the past few days. The feelings were so overwhelming. In my heart. On my center. The faster she moved inside me, the more securely I held my comforter, twisting the fabric with each jolt she sent through me.
“Holy fuck,” I said, completely defeated.
I was paralyzed, in complete darkness, with Kennedy firing tingling warmth all through my body while she kissed my neck and collarbone. The more I relaxed, the faster and more calculated her technique became. I dug my fingernails into her back, and her breathing against my ear grew heavier and ragged. The way I felt when she touched me was different than the girls I’d hooked up with. There was something more than the sexual pleasure. I didn’t feel a simmer in my gut when another girl looked at me, or a buzz on my lips when they kissed me, this gravitational pull when our eyes met, or the burning in the pit of my stomach from the immense desire. The only girl who made me feel like that was Kennedy.
Who was drunk.
Who just broke up with her girlfriend.
Who was going to disappear to the East Coast in a few hours.
Shit, what the hell were we doing?
This wasn’t right at all. This wasn’t part of the visualization.
“Kennedy,” I said, barely able to squeak out her name from the pleasure so close to claiming me. She continued faster, and I had to collect the gasp that danced on the tip of my tongue which would only encourage her to continue.
I grabbed her wrist and held it steady. Her smile blended into the darkness.
“Ken, you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, but I’m coherent.” Her tone still had hope that she could finish me, and I didn’t doubt that she could in sixty seconds or less.
“I don’t want to do it. Not like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re drunk. I’m sober. That’s not how I want this to happen.”
I should have saved all this talk until she was out of me, but when my mind went on vacation, it later scurried back to its post chaotically to make up for its incompetence. Kennedy retrieved her hand and planted herself on the edge of my bed, her back to me, staring out the window at the streetlamp.
“Ken,” I said, feeling guilty for ruining the moment, for ruining the whole day. But as hard as it was feeling the weight of ten years of romantic history collapse on top of me, I knew it was the right thing to do. For her and for myself.
“Are we really something that just spontaneously happens on your trip out here?” I asked softly. I wasn’t mad, and I didn’t want her to think so. I was trying to help her see the error of what we’d allowed to happen. “Am I really a casual hookup? A drunken rebound?”
There was a heavy pause. Her head tilted to the ground for a moment. “It’s not a casual hookup,” she muttered, her tone defensive yet one hundred percent sure.
“Then what the hell is this?”
She paused for a moment and ran her hands down her face as if what happened finally hit her. “I don’t know, Quinn.”
“I don’t want to be your rebound.”
She shot me a glare that pierced the darkness. “You really think you’re some rebound?”
I shrugged. At that moment, yes, I did. “What’s the plan? We fuck, and you go back to New York, and I go to the Olympics, and that’s that?”
“No!”
Through the locked door, the bass of the Bluetooth still thumped against the walls over the chattering of multiple conversations. One of them no doubt Lillian and Talia wondering what the hell was going on in my room. But the two of us sat on the edge of the bed, taming our beating hearts, and for me, the arousal that still ignited my center. The air between us had never felt thicker. I had no idea how to come back around to where we’d been most of the day, to end the night on the positive note we wanted. I’d rather dance around the giant crater that was our relationship than be stranded at the bottom of the crater like we were right now.
She jumped off the bed and faced the door. “I need to get some air.”
I hopped off the bed, buttoned my jeans, and fixed my hair, making sure that when we walked downstairs, I drew less attention. “Okay, I’ll go with you.”
She kept a steady sprint to the front door, and I trailed her until we reached the stoop. The warm night air greeted us when we took up spots on the cement steps. We sat in silence at first, listening to the car horns and sirens in the distance. The bay breeze ruffled my hair, and it helped calm my short, ragged breaths.
“Say something,” I said, hearing the desperation in my voice, trying to salvage the little grip we still had. “Anything.”
She shook her head and dropped it to her fingers tapping against her bouncing knee. “I can’t believe you think I’m using you as a rebound.”
“Kennedy, how can you not see that this is a horrible time? You’re drunk, and I’m not going to sleep with you for the first time in years while you’re drunk, and I’m stone-cold sober—”