that?”
I shrug. “Some girls don’t.”
“Really? Why not?” She frowned. “Are you doing it right?”
I grunted. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on down there.”
She lifted a brow. “You sure about that? Maybe you need a second opinion.”
“Maggie, what are you doing?” My breath clogged in my chest because suddenly she was shifting on the floor, slipping her panties off from under her skirt. They were white cotton with little rainbows, and as she slid them down her legs, I wanted to touch her so badly my hands nearly burned with all the live-wire nerves. When she pulled them off and tossed them on the couch behind her, I thought I might suffocate from the weight of the desire in my chest.
“Where do you want me? The couch? The floor? Your bed?”
“I’m not just going to use your body like some sort of dummy I can practice on.” But even then Maggie was my kryptonite.
When she lifted her face, her expression softened, and I was torn in two by what I saw in her eyes. First, I saw her old need to validate her worth with her body, the reason I refused to touch her when she came to my dorm as a fifteen-year-old. But there was more. I wouldn’t have touched her if I hadn’t seen it—the lust sparking in her eyes, the way her breathing grew uneven.
The air between us was tense with everything we never said, heavy with the knowledge that this was it for us because we were too different in one way: I loved her. And Maggie? She hated herself with such an intensity that no one she respected could get close.
And now, as my shaft pulses thick against my palm, Maggie fills my brain so completely, there’s no room for the self-disgust I should be feeling. In this moment, hanging in the web of the memory, there’s no room for guilt. I let myself remember the way she looked as she sat on the edge of the couch and parted her legs, my veins zipping with the forbidden heat of putting my mouth on a woman I’d never even kissed. I let myself remember the first brush of my lips against her inner thigh and the shudder that went through her. Finally, I let myself remember the feel of her against my lips, the taste of her on my tongue, and the sound of her moans as I loved her in the only way she would let me.
As my cock grows slick, the memory moves forward sixteen months in time, her hair spread out around her on the wet grass by the river, her face framed by my hands as I dipped my head for a kiss so long-anticipated that it’s the most erotic thing my mind can conjure in this moment, as I tighten my grip and push myself into release.
After, the self-loathing settles in, as it should. I stare up at the ceiling, hating everyone who ever made me believe that love was simple, that it was easy.
If love were simple, my love for Krystal would be enough to wash away the memory of Maggie’s kiss.
***
Maggie
This new bridesmaid dress is more hideous than the first.
“What do you think?” Hanna asks as I step from the dressing room.
“It’s…” Hideous . I search for another word. “So unique!”
“We hate it too,” Hanna whispers.
I frown. I don’t hate it, not exactly. It seems cruel to hate such an ugly dress. Akin to hating an ugly child.
The first strike against the dress is its color: maize, a fancy way of saying “sweet-corn yellow.” The hue washes me out and makes me look a little malnourished.
The second strike against the dress is the skirt. The base is tea length. I can go for tea length. I even thought the skirt looked cute landing just below my knees. But it has a removable floor-length skirt that wraps around three-quarters of the dress, exposing only a small triangle of the shorter skirt beneath.
The third, and biggest, strike against the dress is the big ass bow sitting right at my hip.
No, I don’t hate the dress. I just find it to be a little schizophrenic. Sexy casual here, formal there, little-girl cute there. The combination is disturbing.
Krystal
I shrug. “Some girls don’t.”
“Really? Why not?” She frowned. “Are you doing it right?”
I grunted. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on down there.”
She lifted a brow. “You sure about that? Maybe you need a second opinion.”
“Maggie, what are you doing?” My breath clogged in my chest because suddenly she was shifting on the floor, slipping her panties off from under her skirt. They were white cotton with little rainbows, and as she slid them down her legs, I wanted to touch her so badly my hands nearly burned with all the live-wire nerves. When she pulled them off and tossed them on the couch behind her, I thought I might suffocate from the weight of the desire in my chest.
“Where do you want me? The couch? The floor? Your bed?”
“I’m not just going to use your body like some sort of dummy I can practice on.” But even then Maggie was my kryptonite.
When she lifted her face, her expression softened, and I was torn in two by what I saw in her eyes. First, I saw her old need to validate her worth with her body, the reason I refused to touch her when she came to my dorm as a fifteen-year-old. But there was more. I wouldn’t have touched her if I hadn’t seen it—the lust sparking in her eyes, the way her breathing grew uneven.
The air between us was tense with everything we never said, heavy with the knowledge that this was it for us because we were too different in one way: I loved her. And Maggie? She hated herself with such an intensity that no one she respected could get close.
And now, as my shaft pulses thick against my palm, Maggie fills my brain so completely, there’s no room for the self-disgust I should be feeling. In this moment, hanging in the web of the memory, there’s no room for guilt. I let myself remember the way she looked as she sat on the edge of the couch and parted her legs, my veins zipping with the forbidden heat of putting my mouth on a woman I’d never even kissed. I let myself remember the first brush of my lips against her inner thigh and the shudder that went through her. Finally, I let myself remember the feel of her against my lips, the taste of her on my tongue, and the sound of her moans as I loved her in the only way she would let me.
As my cock grows slick, the memory moves forward sixteen months in time, her hair spread out around her on the wet grass by the river, her face framed by my hands as I dipped my head for a kiss so long-anticipated that it’s the most erotic thing my mind can conjure in this moment, as I tighten my grip and push myself into release.
After, the self-loathing settles in, as it should. I stare up at the ceiling, hating everyone who ever made me believe that love was simple, that it was easy.
If love were simple, my love for Krystal would be enough to wash away the memory of Maggie’s kiss.
***
Maggie
This new bridesmaid dress is more hideous than the first.
“What do you think?” Hanna asks as I step from the dressing room.
“It’s…” Hideous . I search for another word. “So unique!”
“We hate it too,” Hanna whispers.
I frown. I don’t hate it, not exactly. It seems cruel to hate such an ugly dress. Akin to hating an ugly child.
The first strike against the dress is its color: maize, a fancy way of saying “sweet-corn yellow.” The hue washes me out and makes me look a little malnourished.
The second strike against the dress is the skirt. The base is tea length. I can go for tea length. I even thought the skirt looked cute landing just below my knees. But it has a removable floor-length skirt that wraps around three-quarters of the dress, exposing only a small triangle of the shorter skirt beneath.
The third, and biggest, strike against the dress is the big ass bow sitting right at my hip.
No, I don’t hate the dress. I just find it to be a little schizophrenic. Sexy casual here, formal there, little-girl cute there. The combination is disturbing.
Krystal
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