"Tell me something," he says.
"Like what?"
He swallows. "Something about your childhood. A good memory."
"I have a lot of those. I had a good childhood. Nic pestered me mercilessly as big brothers do, but we had fun." I let my eyes float closed, remembering the good days. "Mom would take us to the park and on these long hikes through the woods. She'd tell us stories about Prince Nicholas and Princess Mia and the adventures they had trying to save their kingdom from various villains. We thought she was the smartest woman ever, and we'd beg for her to tell us more stories, so she'd use them to get us to do our chores. She'd tell us stories while we folded the laundry or helped her with dinner."
"That sounds nice."
"It was." I smile remembering it. She wasn't just a good mom. She was amazing. "I didn't know we were poor. I mean, it was clear the other kids at school had more stuff and nicer clothes, but I was probably in fourth grade before I realized that was something worth envying. When my mom was around, life at home was better than good. It was rich. Anything felt possible." And then she left and took that away. My heart squeezes with the ache of that loss.
"My mom was like that, too," Arrow says. "I've always been surrounded by people who believed in me, but Mom believed in me without expectation. There were never any strings to her affection. She just wanted me to be happy."
He hardly ever talks about her, and I want to know as much as he's willing to share. "When did she die?"
"Five years ago this weekend. The end was tough. I was glad when she finally let go. When did your mom leave?" he asks, rubbing my arm under the blanket. I wonder if he even realizes he's doing it.
I shift against him and wrap an arm around his waist, as if his nearness could protect me from the pain of talking about my mother. "She left the summer before I started high school, so just over five years ago." I frown at the coincidence of both of us losing our mothers around the same time.
"Did she say why?" he asks.
"I think it was all too much for her. Dad was sober more often back then, but he was still a lazy misogynist. She did everything. She worked nights at the dry cleaners, got us to school every day, cleaned the house, did the shopping, cooked the food, picked up side work as a maid anytime she could for extra cash. She was just done. So she left."
"Why didn't she take you with her?"
I spent so many years avoiding asking that question out loud. Asking a question means you're willing to hear the answer, and I didn't think I could handle someone telling me what I already believed in my mind. She didn't want us.
"I'm sure she wanted you," Arrow says, as if reading my thoughts. "She had to have made the decision for a reason."
"I don't know. Maybe she thought it was my father's turn to do all the work and child rearing. She never said. She didn't even say goodbye if you don't count the note. She couldn't have known that her leaving would drive Dad to drink. She couldn't have known that he'd lose his job, and Nic and I would be left fending for ourselves."
"I'm sorry, Mia."
"I wish you'd quit apologizing for my life. It's embarrassing."
"You deserve better than what you've been given. Better than a mom who leaves without explanation, better than an alcoholic father, and better than a boyfriend who sleeps around on you."
"What makes me so deserving?" I pull back to look at him. He's watching me with cautious eyes. "Doesn't everyone deserve all that?"
"No, Mia. Some people don't deserve shit. But you . . ." He touches my face, tracing my jaw and skimming his thumb across my lips.
"Do I deserve you?"
He draws in a breath. "What happens tomorrow? After I take you home and Brogan calls? What happens after your buzz wears off and you remember you don't want to be with me?"
"Why would you say I don't want to be with you?"
"Wasn't that the decision you made when you decided to date Brogan? You didn't want to be with me because of who my father is, and so you chose him," he says. "I don't blame you, but I'm asking what happens tomorrow when you remember all of that."
"I don't know." I remove my hand from around his waist and find the dark trail of hair I know from memory starts just above his navel and travels down under his shorts. "I'm sick of making decisions based on tomorrow. I've been doing that since I was fourteen. I want tonight. For once."
He releases a long, slow hiss of breath. "You're sure?" he asks, his voice low and husky.
I nod, move to straddle his lap, and let the blanket fall off my shoulders.
His lips part and he stares up at me in a way that makes me feel like a goddess granting his greatest wish. I release the clasp on my bra, and he watches as I toss it to the floorboards.
Cupping my jaw gently, he leans forward to trail soft kisses down my neck. His mouth opens, and his hands go to my sides. His thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts.
He strikes me as absolutely vulnerable in this moment. He touches me with such tenderness that I'm melting from the very center of my core all the way out to my fingertips.
"You're beautiful, Mia." He dips his head to my breast and draws a nipple into his mouth.
I moan involuntarily and arch into him-his touch, the stroke of his tongue, the wet heat of his open mouth latched onto me. His hands slide down my body and find the button on my jean shorts. I push them down, along with my panties, and kick them to the side. He takes my hips, squeezing them tightly.
I let myself dissolve into the moment. Into the feel of his tongue on my breasts. Into the heat of his mouth on my skin. I roll my hips, slide my fingers into his hair. For once in my life, I stop worrying about what I'm supposed to be doing and how I'm supposed to be acting. I just feel. Arrow makes me feel.
He responds to every sound that comes out of my mouth. Every move I make. Every time I moan or shift my hips to press our bodies closer. His breath catches and his hands grip me tighter, showing me how much my response turns him on.
Nothing is simple between us. Even if I never return to Brogan, he'll always be between me and Arrow. Even if my dad can forgive me for falling for a Woodison, Arrow's family will always be something between us. I'm not fooling myself into thinking that another girl sucking Brogan's dick suddenly made my affection for Arrow less complicated. All I'm doing is allowing myself this night. This moment.
"I have condoms in my glove compartment," he murmurs in my ear. "If you're sure."
I'm not sure. I'm scared. Not scared that it'll hurt-though it might-or that he won't be gentle with me-I know he'll define gentle. I'm scared what this means to me. I'm scared that I've had months and months with Brogan and so many opportunities to do this with the man I'm supposed to love and I've found every excuse to avoid it. And here I am in Arrow's arms at the first opportunity.
I'm scared of how much it means to me that he was there tonight-alone in his dorm room after a win, as if he were waiting for me instead of going to the party. I'm scared of how I'll feel after. When I've given another piece of myself to the guy who had me from the first. But mostly I'm scared that this night might slip away before I can stretch my wings and fly.
"I'm sure," I say, and before I can chicken out, I climb over the seat, pop the glove compartment, and pull out the box. It's new. Closed. Sealed on all sides. That shouldn't matter. It doesn't necessarily mean anything more than that his last box is gone. But I don't want to be just another condom in a half-empty box, so I like that I have to open it.
Arrow helps me peel his shorts and briefs from his hips, and I hand him the condom in its wrapper. He puts it on, splitting his attention between me and the latex covering his shaft.
I straddle him. He cups my jaw and his eyes lock with mine as I position my body over him and slowly work my way down. He gasps, and I bury my face into the side of his neck so he can't see me grimace. It hurts more than I expected.
"Dear God, Mia. You're so . . ." One hand squeezes my hip and the other falls from my hair to find my hand. He laces our fingers and holds them to his chest.
I stay still for a minute, letting my body adjust to his size, to this intrusion of someone inside me, until the pain gives way, edged out by pleasure. I pull back enough to look at our intertwined fingers, my skin against his, my knuckles against his pounding heart.