And I want him to know it’s okay.
What we’re doing here, I want it, too.
Then his hands are on my ass, and I’m thinking that’s where he wanted them this whole time, because he is very serious about groping my butt, tracing the seam of my jeans as far as he can reach, kneading me and pushing me against him while he pushes up, just a little.
“Pull your hair back,” he whispers.
I toss it over my shoulder, and then shiver when he starts kissing my throat while moving us together with his hands.
Then I feel his big hands slide under the gap of the waistband in my jeans, and he scratches his nails, a little, over just the tops of each cheek. I shiver.
“Unfasten your jeans.”
I lean up to look at him.
“I want to touch you,” he says, “but I don’t—”
Then I slide my hands down over his chest, and fumble a little at my button-fly. He watches me, his hands moving in little circles over my skin, and as soon as I unbutton enough that I make my tight jeans slack, he’s sliding his hands down.
He hesitates at the lace band of my panties, so I put my thumb on his chin and kiss him, breathe into him, touch my tongue against his.
Even breathing hard, his hips meeting mine, he still has his strange graceless grace. His body feels big against mine, but every time he moves in the bench seat, another awkward part of me finds a place to rest on him, until we have this rhythm, my loosened jeans gliding along his erection, our soft T-shirts bunching, my arms crossed behind his head, our mouths kissing, our throats humming.
When he sweeps over both cheeks of my ass, first it’s so deliciously gentle, and I get that warm, pin-prickle sensation all over the skin of my back, over the skin he’s exploring, all the way over my thighs.
Then he says my name and spreads me with both hands while pushing me against him. He feels between, skidding through sweat there, his fingers so, so soft, not hesitant, teasing. Teasing just around there, kicking up such impossible, dirty, unexpected pleasure, my brain goes dark.
I still, and hold my breath, bury my face in his neck, the rich, perfect pin prickles get intense, almost like something I could hear, and they’re washing over me, hot, sharp, millions of them, while he explores me, his face in my neck, his heart pounding against my chest.
It feels so good, and I want to keep still but all this sensation is gathering and distracting me so I kind of wallow all over him, to feel his warm body all along mine, and I push my ass up into his hands, and for a moment, one of those hands travels low, finds me wet, so obviously swollen for him that his firm, slippery touch makes me moan and push and feel like begging.
“Evan, Evan,” is how I beg, then his hands are stroking up, over the curve of my sensitized bottom, back over the loosened seat of my jeans where he squeezes, like he’s thanking me for letting him turn me on beyond all possible reason.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and I am glad his voice is all fucked up and when he says it his hips bump up, hard, into mine, and I’m glad, too, that the grip of his hands gets too tight on my ass, on my hips, because I want his awkward, unchecked desire rubbing against me.
My thighs are shaking, hot, and so he thrusts against me harder, and he feels even bigger, or maybe it’s that I’m so swollen—so wet I’m sliding against my underwear with these explicit little yanks in the opposite direction of our hips.
It’s not quite enough.
I grab his face again and let us kiss all sloppy, our tongues coaxing, wanting, and that makes it all better and even worse.
His arms come up all the way around me, trace my spine, try to slide under my tight bra strap.
“Here,” I say, and I reach back and unhook the little row of hooks because he doesn’t look like he could manage the structural engineering of a full-figured bra in his current state. He watches me, flushed, while his hands swoop over my skin where my bra is releasing from my back and ribs.
His big hands need no help finding my breasts, and I have to breathe instead of kiss, or I’ll die.
He plays with the sore dents the underwire and straps have left, circling over them while I watch him watch the movements of his hands under my shirt.
Then the cups ease up over my breasts, kind of freeing them all at once with a bounce. It feels good, one step closer to easing this ache.
“Jesus,” he whispers, low and rough, and again, “Jesus,” for emphasis, I think, and then, “How do you like to be touched here? Like this?” He brushes, hardly brushes, over my nipples and I make some kind of sound and I can’t help it, I reach up and under and follow his hands and fingers to feel what he’s doing, because it’s almost a little much.