18. Mackie #2
He sucks in a sharp breath, then chokes on nothing, his whole body jerking forward in a cough.
I sit there watching with what I hope is an innocent expression.
I know this is insane. We’ve been together for only a few months, and I just asked about children.
I want to know if he thinks about it too, or if I’m alone in this particular brand of crazy.
“How many—” He’s still coughing. “You can’t just—”
“Both people answer so I’ll go first. Three. Two boys and a girl. Or three boys. I’m flexible. But at least one of them plays hockey, and at least one of them is named after a hockey term.”
“A hockey term.”
“Celly Almardon. Tell me that doesn’t go hard.”
“That does not go hard. That sounds like a salad dressing.”
“Or Deke! Deke Almardon. Coolest kid on the playground.”
“He’d get beaten up on the playground.”
“Not if he can fight. Which he will, because his mom is going to teach him.” I poke him in the chest. “Stop deflecting. How many?”
He’s quiet, looking at where my finger is pressing into him. I can see him thinking about the story he just told me about the grandparents who didn’t know what to do with him.
“Two,” he says quietly. “Maybe three. If the first two are good. If we’re... good at it.”
“We’re going to be great at it.”
He catches my hand. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
“I’m always ahead of myself. You should know that by now.” I squeeze his fingers. The joke is sitting right there on my tongue. I know it’s a joke, but I also know it isn’t. “You know we actually have to have sex to make those kids, right?”
I watch his eyes go wide but they don’t leave mine. Oh well. Ten toes in now.
“It’s a required step in the process.” I’m trying to keep the joke lighter, but I’m actually losing my nerve. I’ve been thinking about this way more than the kids thing. “Unless you don’t want to. Which is fine. You can tell me.”
“Mackie—”
“Because we’ve been together for months. We’ve done... stuff. But you’ve never pushed for more. I’ve never actually seen you fully naked.” It comes out smaller than I want it to. “So like, is it me?”
“Mackie. No.” He sits up and pulls me with him. “Where is this coming from?”
“You always stop. Every time.”
“Because I’m terrified of fucking this up.” He runs both hands through his hair. “You’re the first person I’ve ever felt like this about. Every time we’re together, I’m so scared of going too fast or making you uncomfortable that I just default to stopping. I want to respect you.”
“Okay, but I actually want you to disrespect me. Just a little. Enough that you’ll let me see you naked, at least.”
He looks at me. I can see the decision happen—the same quiet, internal calculation I’ve watched him make on the ice—followed by full commitment. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
I pull him down to me. The second his mouth is on mine, I feel it through my entire body—a full-voltage surge of FINALLY.
His tongue slides against mine. His hands are in my hair, then on my waist, then under my shirt.
He groans into my mouth, his hips jerking up against mine. I grind down, and we both gasp.
I pull my shirt over my head. He reaches behind me, unclasps my bra, and pulls it away. I’m about to make a joke about his staring habit when he rolls off the bed, drops to his knees on the floor, and pulls me to the edge,
His thumbs hook into the waistband of my leggings, and he looks up at me. Asking. Always asking.
I nod in response.
He pulls them down my legs and then he’s staring at the fabric in his hands like his brain got lost somewhere between my thighs and whatever he was planning to do next.
I reach down and pluck my panties out of the fabric, pressing them into his hand. “Keep them,” I say. My brain is screaming at me, but I’m too deep to go back now. “For road trips.”
He looks at the lace, then back up at me, ears red. “Are you serious?”
“If you want them.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just folds them carefully, like they’re something important, and sets them on the nightstand. Somehow, that’s hotter than anything he could have said. He didn’t try to be smooth about it; he just treated it like I’d handed him something to take care of.
I pull him up and hook my fingers into the waistband of his sweats. He’s standing in front of me, breathing hard. I can feel his stomach tense under my knuckles. I pull his sweats and boxers down together and—
“Oh holy shit,” I whisper.
He freezes. “What.”
I’m sitting eye-level with him. My brain has gone completely blank, except for a high-pitched noise in my ears that might be my last remaining brain cells dying.
He reaches for his boxers to pull them back up, but I grab his wrist. “Oh no you don’t. Okay, so. You know how people always say that thing about tall guys? Like shoe size and whatever?”
“Please don’t.”
“I never believed it. I thought it was just something people said. But the first time I held your hand, I remember thinking, huh, I wonder if that’s actually true.”
“Mackie.”
“And it’s true. It is so obviously, undeniably true. I am faced with how true it is right now in this moment.” I reach out and run my finger along the length of him slowly, just barely touching. He twitches under my fingertip.
We both suck in a breath at the same time.
It twitched. I didn’t know it could do that. Just from me touching it. Like it has its own opinions about me.
“Can I lick it?” I hear myself say.
His hand lands on my shoulder. “Do you want this to be over immediately?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Mackie, if you put your mouth on me right now I will last about three seconds. I’ve been waiting weeks for this, so please, I am asking you—”
I pull him down onto the bed. “Do you have condoms?”
He reaches for his nightstand, pulling out a box of condoms still sealed in plastic.
“Unopened?” I ask.
He blushes harder. “I bought them after our first date. Just in case.”
“That’s very responsible of you.” I tear the box open and hand him one.
He rips the packet. I watch him roll it on with hands that fumble slightly.
I’m filled with a weird mix of fascination and absolute terror.
This is actually happening. Right now, on this bed.
I’m not sure if I’m more nervous about it hurting or him finding out that it’s actually my first time.
He pulls me over him, hands gentle on my hips, and I hover there looking down at him. His hair is a disaster. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are incredibly blue as he stares up at me.
“Ready?” he asks softly.
I reach down and guide him to my entrance. Just the press of him there makes me tense. I sink down slowly. Just an inch. Then another. Then the rest, because I’m tired of prolonging the anticipation and—
Oh. Oh god. That’s a lot. My whole body is screaming.
I’m trying to keep my face calm, trying to look like someone who’s done this before.
His eyes are closed, his head is tipped back, and his jaw is locked.
His hands flex on my thighs. Thank god. He can’t see me biting the inside of my lip or the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.
I don’t move. I can’t. I’m just sitting here, impaled, wondering if this is what it’s supposed to feel like or if something has gone catastrophically wrong. Am I supposed to move? Is he going to move? Should I moan or something? I rock my hips. Testing.
He hisses through his teeth. “Jesus. You’re so tight.”
I freeze. “Did I hurt you?”
His eyes fly open. “What? How would you hurt me?”
“You made a sound!”
“Because it feels good, Mackie.”
“Oh.” I rock again, trying to find a rhythm. He lifts his hips and bumps something. I must make a face, because his hands are suddenly on my hips, stilling me.
“Wait. Am I hurting you?”
“No.”
“Mackie.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just made a face.”
I can feel him reading me the way he reads everything: catching what I’m trying to hide behind what I’m showing.
“Mackie,” he says quietly. “Is this your first time?”
“No.” I say quickly. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.”
His mouth drops open slightly.
“I’m extremely experienced. I’m practically an expert. I could probably teach a class.”
“Mackie.”
“I’ve had so much sex, Zach, you wouldn’t even believe—”
“Mack.” His voice is so gentle it almost breaks me. He sits up and pulls me against him, which only rocks him deeper. I gasp. He groans, and I bury my face in his neck.
The blush spreads down to my collarbones. I squeeze my eyes shut fighting tears. “...Okay, fine. Yes. It’s my first time.”
He exhales, long and shaky, and drops his forehead against mine.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have—we could have gone slower, I would have done everything differently—”