20. Indy
TWENTY
INDY
I climb out of my window and lie down on the roof with a sigh of relief. I’ve been up my feet the whole day, but now the last of the guests Mom invited over for the graduation party she organized for us have all finally taken off. She and Dad headed out for a date, and Dia is somewhere with Bridge.
My face is hurting from all the smiling I’ve been doing, and I’m tired of talking and thinking about the future. I’ve answered the same few questions over and over again, all centering around the fall and my plans.
The shingles are still warm from the day’s sunshine.
I close my eyes, and the day keeps replaying in my head to the point of exhaustion. The handshakes. The hugs. The proud smiles.
I don’t want to think about fall anymore. About packing and moving and new people and new challenges. For right now, I just want to be. I have time. The whole summer.
I pick up the bottle of champagne I took from the kitchen. It’s the expensive stuff. A leftover from the party. I’m going to have a celebration of my own and toast for good luck.
It’s nice. It goes down easily and makes my throat fizz with bubbles. Somewhere close by, a lone mockingbird whistles. The waves lap at the shore, and I drink.
When I hear the door open in my room, I’m not even surprised. There’s a reluctantly accepted inevitability about Nick being here. I’m not sure if it’s because I expected him to come or if maybe it’s more that I hoped.
I’m less edgy and frustrated than I was before. At the party, I kept searching him out even after I repeatedly told myself not to. Then I caught him looking at me, and he didn’t even have the courtesy to turn away and pretend he hadn’t, and what the fuck was that even about?
I take another drink and wordlessly hold the bottle out for Nick after he sits down next to me. He takes it and tips it back. I watch his throat move as he swallows, and when he lowers the bottle and meets my gaze, I don’t even pretend I wasn’t looking either.
There’s a pull inside me. Some kind of invisible string that connects me to him.
I don’t know what it is or why it’s there.
An obsession? Just lust? Something more?
Or fuck it, maybe it’s just sex. Maybe it’s just the novelty of somebody with capable hands and an even more capable mouth getting me off.
Like puppy love, only with sex. It’s new and exciting and feels so good that I’ve latched on to the idea that it’s something special.
Something more. That there’s something there, even if I’m not sure what that something might be.
He’s dressed in a pair of shorts and nothing else, hair curling in damp strands, shoulders dotted with droplets of water. Every now and then one slides down his collarbone and chest, and I have to make a conscious effort not to follow its path.
He drags his hand through his hair, pushing it back. It only makes the curls wilder.
“Nice outfit,” I say.
“Figured you might appreciate it.”
I clutch the back of my neck with my fingers and slowly shake my head.
“Why are you here?”
I expect something glib or dismissive.
He slides his thumb over the champagne bottle label, brows furrowing lightly.
“It seems I’m having some difficulties keeping my hands away from you.”
That’s a level of honesty I did not expect.
“Seriously? You’re just… coming out and admitting that? Just like that?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Guess so. To be fair, it seemed like the fastest way to solve this problem.”
Yeah. Okay. So this is about sex. That’s all there is to it. I let the knowledge settle for a bit. It’s somehow tempting and disappointing at once, but I don’t want to admit either, even to myself.
Doesn’t stop my dick from twitching at the implication.
I hold my hand out for the bottle.
“Share,” I say.
He hands me the champagne, and I take another drink while I try to mull it over.
“I’ve never had sex on a roof,” I say.
I put the bottle down, lean toward him, and kiss him.
Just because… because I want to, mainly.
This isn’t like the other times I’ve kissed him, with my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest and adrenaline playing havoc in my veins.
There had been an element of desperation in most of our kisses so far.
Fast and hard. Shallow breaths and a kind of helplessness.
My hand goes to his thigh as I balance myself above him. The only points of contact between our bodies are our lips and the hard muscle beneath my palm. I slide my hand higher until my fingers disappear underneath the edge of his shorts.
Nick grunts, his thigh tensing for a moment. I like the reaction, so I push my hand higher until my fingertips graze his balls.
It’s an unexpected combination of vulnerability, helplessness, and power. His mouth is soft and pliant underneath mine, and he gives me all the control.
I kiss him deeper, sliding my tongue over his lips and, when he opens them, inside his mouth. And he kisses me back, slow and responsive. There’s the feeling of a lazy summer’s day in this kiss.
I move. Slide into his lap. Straddle him. And all the while, we keep kissing.
There’s no palpable desperation or helpless desire, but the fact that this time every move and touch is deliberate makes this moment have more gravity. I could write every other encounter off as insanity; something that was somehow not up to me.
This is a choice.
Nick is hard in his shorts, his breathing too fast, his skin ridiculously hot to my touch. His shoulder muscles are corded and tight, quivering with tension.
I slide closer, moving until my ass rests on top of the hardness of his cock. A spiral of heat builds in my belly like a tightly coiled wire.
A harsh exhale escapes Nick’s lips, but he stays still.
The only movement he makes is to press his fingers into my thighs.
It’s almost as if somebody is pointing at me and telling me that the stage is mine, and where I would’ve thought it’d make me nervous, instead, there’s a thrilling surge of power rushing through me.
I slide my thumb up his hip to his chest and over his collarbone. I trace it to the hollow of his throat and up his neck before I cup the side of his face. He tilts his head back the slightest bit, giving me better access, deepening the kiss.
I feel the vibration of the helpless groan that escapes his throat, and his fingers tighten almost painfully on my thighs when I experimentally roll my hips forward.
I press closer. The desperation sneaks back in. The kiss turns harder. Wilder. Deeper. Wetter.
I’m rocking against his cock, and his hands are on my hips now, urging me on. My head is empty other than the demanding rhythm of more, more, more that keeps repeating in my brain.
The dress pants I’m wearing are too tight.
The friction the zipper pressed against my cock creates is bordering on uncomfortable, but I can’t stop.
I keep rocking my hips against him, closer and closer and closer in tiny increments until that slow progression becomes too frustrating, and it’s driving me insane and how do I get more?
That’s the thing with Nick—somehow I always end up wanting more.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bear down on him. A low noise that doesn’t sound like me at all comes out of my throat. Part desire, part desperation, part frustration.
I want more. I’m not even sure what that more would entail or how to handle it, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting.
“Take it,” Nick murmurs against my lips, and he sounds as out of breath and needy as I feel. “Whatever it is, take it. I’ll give it to you.”
“I… More. I want more.” I rock my hips harder, grinding my body into his with violence.
He slides his hand to the base of my throat and holds it there until I open my eyes and look at him.
“Anything,” he says.
I push up on my knees and unbutton my pants with shaky fingers.
Somehow, I manage to push the fabric down my hips.
I’m kneeling above him, holding my cock in my hand, squeezing the base.
I feel his burning hot gaze on me while he watches and waits.
I feel the shiver that ripples through his thighs and the goosebumps on my skin.
“Can you…” Fucking fuck, I can’t even say the words. Doesn’t stop me from wanting it, though. I grab his hand and with my face on fire, I guide it to my ass. Maneuver it until his fingertips find my hole. I wait, and I can’t breathe.
His lips quirk. “You want my fingers in your ass, Blue?”
I nod even as I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Yes. I want your fingers in my ass.” Never said those words out loud, but once they’re there, lingering between us, other things become easier to say, too. I cup him through his shorts. “And I want your cock out.”
He groans, and in the next few seconds, he’s pushed his shorts down, and his cock springs free.
I take a moment to just look at it. The moonlight makes him even more impressive. Every line of his body becomes even sharper, every muscle more pronounced.
His dick is pretty. Long and hard, curving upward toward his belly button, the tip glistening with wetness. I lick my lips, saliva pooling in my mouth.
I wrap my fingers around his cock and run my hand up and down slowly.
He shudders, his eyes hooded as he watches me watch him.
His fingers go to the buttons of my shirt and then he’s pushing it off my shoulders.
I let go of his cock so I can pull my arms out and take it back in my hand the second he tosses the shirt onto the roof next to us.
I start stroking him more firmly and he tips his head back, letting out a soft moan.
It’s impossible to keep thinking while he shivers underneath my touch.
His muscles get more and more tense, and his hips give short thrusts that he tries to control but mostly can’t.
There’s something almost animalistic about the way he sinks into pleasure. Something raw.
The more I wanted for myself turns into more I want to give to him. The urge to get him off is something I can almost taste.