Coming Up for Air(9)

"Maggie's coming to school here in the fall," Sylvia tells him.

"I can't wait," he says, his smile becoming a full-fledged grin directed at me. Another guy grasps Dylan's shoulder, speaking quietly to him. They bump fists and do macho handshakes.

Sylvia catches me staring at Dylan and whispers, "He's single."

I raise my eyebrows, and a sly smile forms on her face.

"He's also very nice," she says. "And I hear he's great in bed. Come find me if you decide you want to leave. I need a second round with that football player." She takes off, leaving me alone by the staircase. Crap. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I'm a wallflower at my first college party.

But when I glance up, I find myself looking into Dylan's eyes. He's an inch or so taller than me, and the delicious smell of his cologne pulls me into a trance.

I think about what Sylvia said, that once you get to college, most people don't have relationships. They hook up. I don't want to leave for college without some experience.

Besides, lately, I've been getting these urges. Sometimes I will see this hot actor who plays a werewolf on TV or some sexy musician dancing, moving his hips, and I get all hot and bothered. Sure, I can touch myself, but it never seems to work right. It feels nice, but I don't think I've had an orgasm, and it seems like I'd know. Anyway, I'm always left wanting. I have those urges, and I don't know how to satisfy them. I think I need a boy to do it. Georgia agrees.

She says there's nothing like a guy kissing you everywhere.

And god dammit, I want a guy to kiss me everywhere.

I smile at Dylan.

He smiles back.

And then the worst thing ever happens: my stomach rumbles. Loudly. I'm about to die of embarrassment, but he chuckles.

"Hungry?" he asks.


      ///
       
         
       
        

I touch my stomach. "You have no idea. We didn't get dinner before Sylvia brought me here."

"C'mon," he says, taking my hand and tugging me down the hallway. Feeling his skin against mine makes my heart pound even harder. We arrive in a spacious kitchen, complete with an island and a long table that must seat twenty people. Basketball players take up a lot of space. A guy and girl talk quietly next to a set of doors leading to the backyard. Another couple leans against the dishwasher, making out. A group of guys play beer pong on the table.

Dylan opens the fridge and peers in. "We've got the makings for a PB and J."

"Sounds perfect."

He pulls jelly out of the fridge and takes a loaf of bread from the bread box.

I sit on a barstool as he works. "I thought this was the basketball house."

"Other athletes live here too. So do you play basketball?"

"No, I swim."

He pulls a butter knife from a drawer. "I figured basketball 'cause you're so tall."

"It's a curse."

"A sexy curse. Some of the sexiest women are tall. Like Gisele. Or Taylor Swift."

"True. I'm not sure why I said that. I love being tall. It helps me in the pool."

"See? There you go. It's a sexy curse."

I let out a shaky, flustered breath. "Enough talk. Get back to my sandwich already."

He salutes me with the butter knife, then spreads jelly on one side of the bread and peanut butter on the other.

A super tall African American guy appears in the kitchen and peers over Dylan's shoulder. "Nice, I'll have ten."

"Sorry," Dylan says. "This is for Maggie over there."

Bonus points for remembering my name!

I recognize the guy from the basketball game earlier today. He's the team's star center, Robert Charles. People were saying he'll be an early pick in the NBA draft.

Robert eyes my sandwich and asks in a deep voice, "Hungry?"

"Always," I reply, which makes Dylan chuckle. He's easy to talk to. He makes a girl food. What's not to like?

So after I finish my sandwich-I was in dire need of a snack-I take a deep breath and give Dylan the lamest, but most to-the-point line ever. "Want to get out of here?" 

He beams, and his hotness increases tenfold.

Abandoning our dirty plates, he leads me out of the kitchen to the stairs. It's hard to control my breathing. It's been two years. Two years since I've kissed a guy. I walk faster as he tugs me along. I don't even care that we're not talking.

He ushers me to a room on the third floor.

I take in the plush couch, comfortable-looking bed covered with a black comforter, and picture windows overlooking the bay.

"This is nice," I say.

"Yeah, I love this house."

He flips a switch, and a bright white glow illuminates the room. I squint. Why do we need lights? He knows I want to make out, right? Not read aloud to each other.