Good Girls

We sit down on the porch steps. He pulls out his cell phone, flicks it open, and shows me the screen saver. It’s me in my wedding dress. The message I’d sent him with the picture said: “No, it’s not a proposal, just an apology. I’m sorry for everything. I suck (and not in the good way).”

But I put my arms around him and hugged him, because I didn’t know what else to do. He kept kissing me, bending my leg and curling one arm under my knee, and sliding his other arm around my shoulders. I didn’t understand what he was doing, but I let him do it. Maybe he saw it in a movie and thought it would be fun, or maybe this was how everyone did it—what did I know? I tried to focus on the kissing part, though he was sort of spacing out on that end. His movements

With his teeth, he ripped open the package, and his hands disappeared under the blankets. Then he rolled on top of me, an elbow on either side of my face. He kissed me as he pressed against me, poking me with his spongy self, now rubber-coated. I thought about the spam I always got in my e-mail box—“BE A LOVE HAMMER ALL NIGHT LONG!” I wasn’t sure if he and his love hammer would ever find their way inside, so I put my hand down to help him. I felt a surge and a sharp, stinging pain.

covers over us and yanked at my clothes—sweater, T-shirt, bra, jeans. He slid his hand inside my underwear and I wasn’t sure which one of us gasped. I felt his lips moving against my ear. “Is it okay if I…?”
“Yeah,” I said against his throat. And then the underwear was gone, too, tossed off the side of the bed. He stripped down so fast it was as if his clothes were made of Velcro. Rubbing against his bare skin was so yummy that I had to keep myself from humming.

I didn’t wait for Luke to make a move, I didn’t even wait to climb up onto the bed. I stood in front of him, grabbed his face in my hands, and kissed him, slipping my tongue between his teeth, resisting the urge to swallow his face right there. He growled and pulled me onto the mattress. As we kissed, I felt this ache building, an ache that started between my legs but radiated outward like it was traveling along my veins, tightening and expanding and tightening again. He yanked the

He closed his eyes. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
My face burned. I didn’t know what I was trying to do except maybe drive him crazy. I liked the idea that I could drive him crazy; I wanted to keep doing that. And I wanted to keep him coming back to me, I wanted to keep him kissing me and touching me and telling me I was pretty. I started to move my hand, hoping I was doing it right. “I am trying to kill you,” I said. “But I hope you’ll die happy.”

I squeezed. “Does that hurt?”
His eyes were like pools of motor oil, dark and glazed. “Are you kidding?”
“I’m curious.”
“No, it doesn’t hurt,” he said. “I like it.”

I slid my hand down his chest and stomach and then wriggled my fingers in the waistband of his underwear. His breathing went ragged as I brushed the tip of his penis, wrapped my hand around it

I want him to feel me but don’t want him to see me my boobs are like pancakes and my stomach sticks out and my butt is all squished against the floor and what if I like it and start flailing around or what if I don’t like it and start flailing around or what if I taste funny and he doesn’t like it and…

grabbing it, guiding it, showing him exactly where and how to touch me, but as bold and brave and going-places-I’d-never-gone-before as I was, I wasn’t that bold or that brave. My own hands started to travel. He had miles and miles of saltysmooth skin and all of it was mine. I could feel his hard-on burning a brand on my hip, heard the sharp intake of breath when I pressed against it.
He shifted and pulled the blanket off us. I felt the rush of cool air and the pressure of his lips as he kissed his way down my neck, breastbone, and stomach, past my belly button and lower and lower and lower. His fingertips curled into the top of my underwear and started to peel it down my hips