Chapter Twenty-Two. Luna
Chapter Twenty-Two
Luna
I’ve never felt anything like what I feel for Riley right now.
With all the men I’ve dated and written songs about, intimacy was mostly performative.
It was like currency I’d hold on to and usually give up only when I felt they’d been romantic enough or done something I really liked.
When I touched them or took their shirt off, it was because I knew I was supposed to and I couldn’t put it off any longer. And I thought that’s just what it was.
This is nothing like that.
I want to give Riley everything; there’s no scorecard or tally of who’s done what.
I want all of her, and I want her to have all of me to do whatever she wants with.
But I’m also nervous, because I’ve never been with a girl—I’ve only even had sex with a few guys—and I don’t know what I’m doing.
I tilt Riley’s face to mine and kiss her, pulling her toward me until she turns around and climbs onto my lap.
Her robe is sliding open and I untie it and push it the rest of the way so that I can see her perfect full breasts and the curve of her stomach.
Getting to touch Riley feels rare. I suddenly understand why when I’ve been with guys, their hand was shaking, tentatively creeping nearer my bra, but they were too scared to go for it.
It feels both illicit and natural to get to just reach out and touch Riley.
I can’t believe it can feel like this, and it makes me want to cry when I think of all the years and fumbled nights I’ve spent on something that wilted in comparison to this.
No wonder my good songs are the ones about failed love.
I reach out and cup her breast in my hand, running my fingers over her peaked nipples, and I moan.
She inhales sharply and kisses me, and I can’t get over that I get to touch her.
I’ve never wanted something like this, and as someone who’s been reaching without getting closer to certainty in love, it feels like clarity.
I worried that I wouldn’t know what to do in this moment, but something about this feels natural in a way being with guys just never did. We kiss and kiss and kiss and I suck on her breasts and moan.
“Let’s go to bed,” Riley breathes. “Let me take you to bed.”
I kiss her as I nod, and we rush to get up.
She lets her robe fall onto the daybed, and I discard mine on the ground as we walk inside.
I feel like I should be self-conscious that I’m not made up, my hair is half wet and tangled, and I think I’ve gotten too much sun in the brief time we’ve been out by the pool.
But I’m not. When I look at Riley, all I see is how perfect she looks like this, free and relaxed, and I’m happy.
We climb onto the bed, kissing furiously, and I let my hands trace all over Riley, her perfect face and ski-slope nose, the curves of her stomach and breasts and thighs, and the muscles in her arms that I’ve watched strain as she cooks.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper between kisses.
Riley’s thigh is between my legs and I strain into it, and I can feel the wet spot I’m leaving on it. This is how it’s supposed to be.
Riley starts kissing my neck and my chest and sucking on my breasts with a little bit of teeth in a way that makes me arch into her.
She starts making her way lower, until her hands are on my hips, and she’s so close to the spot that’s been throbbing for her.
“Can I keep going?” she asks, her voice throaty and low.
“You don’t need to,” I say quickly. I’ve had people go down on me before, but it was never very good. I usually ended up faking an orgasm or pulling them up and grabbing my vibrator.
“Luna. I want to.”
“It doesn’t … I won’t come. I’ve tried before and it’s so much work for you and I don’t come from it anyway.”
Riley kisses my stomach, running her teeth over my skin.
“It’s not work for me. I want to. And I may know what I’m doing a little bit more than someone who made you feel like it was work.
And it’s okay if you don’t come. Sex is about feeling good, not about any specific end goal.
” Riley pulls back a little and looks at me seriously.
“But I don’t have to if you don’t want me to. ”
That’s so different from how I’ve always thought about it. Riley keeps kissing me, my hips, my butt, my inner thighs, everywhere but there, and suddenly there’s nothing I want more. “Please,” I breathe as I strain for more.
“Please what?” she whispers.
“Keep going.”
Riley drops her head back down and keeps teasing me, kissing, closer and closer, until I think I might explode if she stays away from the spot that needs her for one more instant.
I’m not worried about how long it’s taking or if I’m lying in an unflattering way or if I’m sweating. All I want is more.
When she finally reaches my most sensitive spot, she expertly kisses and sucks as I cry out and gasp for air.
She responds to how I’m reacting and adjusts the pressure as she goes.
She spreads my folds open to reach me even more deeply, and I’ve never had anything feel this good.
Suddenly I see why so many songs are written about sex.
After what could have been five minutes or an hour, I suddenly can’t hold back anymore and I break into an orgasm that’s so all-encompassing, my mind goes blank for a moment.
Riley keeps going, and when I think that it can’t go on any longer, she still doesn’t stop, and somehow my orgasm continues in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Afterward my entire body is slack and the sheets are wet and when she comes up to kiss me, I hold her close.
“That was amazing,” I say softly.
“Not like what you’re used to?”
“Nothing like that.” What I’m used to is slobbery fumbling that misses the mark and seems like it’s mainly a halfhearted attempt done in order to get me to do something for them. Nothing like this.
“Well, it was really great for me too,” Riley whispers. I’d never thought of it like that. No one ever made me feel like they were excited to go down on me. But I want to make Riley moan like she just made me cry out. I want to taste her and tease her and make her feel good.
I kiss her, sucking on her lips and cherishing the feeling of her against me.
I love how soft her skin is, and how even after being in the water, I swear she still smells like vanilla or baked goods or something.
In places I’m all hard muscles, she’s soft, and when I slip my hand between her legs, she’s soaking wet.
“Is this okay?” I whisper between kisses. I’m worried that I’ll be bad. That it’ll be so painfully obvious I don’t know what I’m doing that she’ll stop me like I’ve stopped fumbling guys. I think I might die of embarrassment if she stops me.
But Riley draws in a sharp breath. “More than okay,” she whispers.
I’ve always wished I could have long nails like all the models and actresses I meet, but suddenly I’m grateful I keep them short for the guitar.
My calloused fingertips draw Riley’s wetness up, and I finger her gently as I pull her tighter against me.
Her breathing is already growing frantic, and I start pressing harder, faster, and I work my tongue into her mouth until suddenly she cries out into me.
I keep going a bit longer, until I’m sure she’s spent, and then I wrap my arms around her, and she drapes a leg over me.
“Mmmm, that was so good,” she murmurs sleepily into my neck.
“I like making you come,” I whisper, and kiss her on the forehead.
The feeling of knowing I made her come is like finishing a song—satisfied, sleepy, and triumphant.
I can’t believe I did that. I just slept with a girl for the first time.
I just had good sex for the first time. Somehow this feels momentous, like everything clicked into place and I just get it.
I didn’t realize sex could feel like this.
We doze off like that, wrapped up in each other, and when I wake up, Riley is sound asleep and the sun is setting. I extricate myself carefully and call the concierge and ask them to send up dinner for us in an hour, one of all of the best dishes from the restaurant and every dessert.
And then I dig my notebook out of my bag, open a voice memo on my phone to catch anything I hum or sing aloud, and I begin to write.