13. Lucy #2
His thumbs traced the curve of me, slow and reverent, mapping the swell where the lace met skin.
The motion sent a ripple of sensation down through my ribs, settling in my stomach like a stone dropped into deep water.
I arched into his touch, and the dark swallowed my small gasp, gave it nowhere to go.
I wanted to feel his skin. Wanted the soft cotton of his hoodie gone.
I found the hem, tugged it up an inch, felt the elastic of his waistband meet my knuckles.
He understood, shifted back just enough to let me work, my fingers finding the warm strip of his stomach above his jeans, the trail of fine hair leading down.
He pulled the hoodie over his head in one motion.
I heard the fabric rustle, the soft thud as it landed on the dash.
I felt the heat of his bare chest radiating against my palms as I pressed them flat to his sternum.
His heart hammered under my fingers. His skin was smooth beneath my palm until I found the faint ridge of the scar along his collarbone, the one I'd watched him shake off from the bleachers.
His hands found my sweater again, sliding the fabric up, inch by inch, and the cold air kissed every newly exposed inch of skin—my ribs, my stomach, the sensitive dip of my spine. I raised my arms, and the sweater left me, disappeared into the black.
He said my name again. Simple and fleeting. But the way he said it was as a prayer, a plea, a confession.
His hands traveled over my waist, thumbs pressing into the hollow of my hips, pulling me onto his lap—a slow, deliberate drag of denim and skin, my knees sinking into the bench on either side of his thighs. I straddled him in the dark, the heat of his body rising to meet mine.
Ty’s mouth moved down my throat. A breath, a brush of lips against the pulse point below my ear that sent a shudder cascading through me.
His hands slid up my back, unhooked my bra with a clumsy, fumbling click.
He pulled the lace away, let it fall into the dark, and I was bare against his chest, skin to skin, the only barrier gone.
The feeling was unbearable. The friction of his chest hair against my nipples, the heat of him seeping into every nerve ending I owned.
I felt the hard line of him through his jeans, pressed against the inside of my thigh, and my body responded—a pulse of wet heat between my legs.
His hands locked on my waist, holding me still, and his voice was wrecked.
"I want you," he said. "But I need you to tell me you want this." His thumbs pressed into the bone of my hip.
I took his hand from my hip and guided it down, past the button of my jeans, pressing his palm flat against the heat of me through the denim. The pressure was just shy of enough, and I felt his fingers curl against the seam, felt the tremor in his wrist.
"I want it," I said, and the words came out raw, scraped clean of hesitation. "I want you."
Ty’s breath left him in a rush—not the exhale of relief, but the sound of something breaking open inside his chest.
He pulled back—not from me, but to reach across the cab, his body shifting under mine.
The bench seat creaked, and I felt his bare chest brush my arm as he stretched toward the glovebox.
His fingers fumbled with the latch—once, twice—and the plastic click of it opening cut through the silence like a gunshot.
I heard him root through the contents, the rustle of papers, the slide of something small and foil-wrapped.
He came back to me with both hands. One settled on my hip, thumb pressing into the jut of bone. The other held the square of foil between two fingers, and I felt him raise it between us—an offering I couldn't see but knew by feel when the edge of it brushed my thigh.
His forehead dropped to mine, and I felt the shudder run through his whole body.
The foil crinkled as he shifted it to his mouth, tearing it open with his teeth—an unpracticed motion, shaky and uncertain.
I heard him spit the corner away, heard the wet sound of him rolling the latex down over himself.
Strong hands found my hips again. Guided me forward, a slow inch, until the head of him pressed against the inside of my thigh, the denim still separating us. He paused, his breath was ragged, his forehead still pressed to mine.
I lifted my hips, reached down between us, and unbuttoned my jeans. The denim loosened, and I pushed them down over my hips just enough—a frantic, clumsy motion, my knuckles brushing his stomach, his thigh, the latex-wrapped length of him. I heard his sharp inhale as my fingers grazed him.
I rose on my knees, positioned myself over him, and felt his hands tighten on my waist—not guiding, not controlling. Anchoring. Steadying himself as much as me.
The tip of him found me, and the contact was electric—a brief pressure, a promise, the barest edge of entry. I hovered there, trembling.
He said my name once more. A whisper. His thumbs traced small circles on my hipbones, and I felt the restraint in every muscle of his body, the way he held himself absolutely still beneath me, waiting.
I sank down.
The stretch was a shock—a fullness that stole my breath, made my vision white at the edges. I felt him pulse inside me, felt his hands fly to my hips, gripping almost hard enough to bruise.
A sound left his throat, low and broken, a wordless surrender that vibrated through his chest and into mine. The dark pressed in around us, the only reality the heat of him filling me, the ache of the stretch, the tremble in his fingers as he held me suspended over him.
We breathed together in the black, his forehead against mine, his chest rising and falling against my bare skin. The lake lapped somewhere beyond the glass, the stars turned, and I felt him slowly, carefully, press a kiss to my shoulder—soft, reverent, like I was something holy.
"I love you," he whispered against my skin.
The words landed raw and unguarded, scraped clean of pretense.
"I've loved you since I was fifteen years old and you laughed at a joke that wasn't actually funny.
I've loved you through every game, every bus ride, every time I told myself to shut up and say it.
" His voice cracked. "I love you, Lucy."
I pressed my forehead to his, the tears I hadn't noticed brimming over, hot on my cheeks.
I couldn't speak.
I moved instead—a slow roll of my hips, a shift that made him gasp, that made his fingers dig into my waist. The motion was tentative at first, learning the rhythm of him in the dark, but his hands found my face, his thumbs brushing the tears away, and the tenderness in that gesture undid me.
Ty moved with me, matching my pace, his hands sliding from my face to my back, pulling me closer, closer, until there was no space left between us.
He buried his face in my hair and said my name again, broken, and I felt the wave cresting in him, the tension pulling taut.
I met him there, rising to meet that edge, my legs tightening around his hips, my breath catching against his ear.
We were a single note held too long, trembling on the brink—then we broke together, a shudder that ran through him and into me, his cry swallowed by my mouth, my own gasp lost in the salt of his skin.
The heat of him flooded me, and I felt myself clench around him, a pulse that echoed his, and his arms wrapped around me and held me like I was the only solid thing left in a dark world.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and held him as he trembled, as his breathing slowly steadied against my collarbone.
His hand slid up my spine, fingers threading through my hair, and we stayed there, locked in the quiet aftermath, the cab a cocoon of heat and whispered breath and the soft creak of the bench beneath us.
Tucking me into his side, Ty brushed a loose curl behind my ear.
I let out a slow, delighted breath. “I love you, too, Ty.”
“Good way to end your birthday?” Ty teased, his signature jovial levity returning slowly.
“Best eighteenth birthday ever,” I breathed.