All of my belongings are on the lawn out in front of the apartment I once shared with my ex-boyfriend. Neighbors snicker and whisper, then look away when I glare at them. I take the boxes and shove them into the cargo space of my small SUV. I don’t know how I’ll make everything fit. Could he have been more of a dick about the whole thing? It’s not like I’m the one who cheated in our relationship, and yet he’s treating me like I’m the bad guy here. He even told me that it was my fault that he cheated because I wasn’t ready to lose my virginity to him (even though I made it abundantly clear from the beginning that I wasn’t going to put out until I was damn ready). He then kicked me out, changed the locks, and left everything I own out on the lawn for anyone to pick through.

It’s not like I was planning on staying a virgin until I was married or anything. It’s just, every time my ex and I went to “do it,” something always kept me from going all the way. He never turned me on to the point of no return. He would always say something strange or perverted, or touch me in a way that made being with him feel like a chore. That’s why I’m not devastated about this breakup. One of us had to do it. I’d just wanted it to be done with mutual respect. After all, we started out as friends, and I’d hoped that if things didn’t work out between us we’d end the same way, as friends again. Wishful thinking.

It takes me a half hour to get everything loaded up. Resting on the top of the last box is a picture of my ex and me during spring break. We’d rented a houseboat with our friends on Shasta Lake. Our boat met up with several others while we were there. It was so much fun, and I thought at the time that we were in the happiest point of our relationship. Turns out I was the only one who thought so. I didn’t find out until after the fact, but the whole time we were out on the lake, he was making out with several other girls. I’d been exploring the island where we’d docked, completely oblivious to what was going on behind my back. Some of my so-called-friends even knew about it but didn’t tell me about it until after the breakup, afraid to stir up drama. Someone even took pictures of him and those girls that ended up on Instagram after we split. It was humiliating to say the least.

I take the framed picture in my hands. The sun glares off the glass, creating dots in front of my vision. Then I throw it at the apartment. I meant to hit the door, but it smashes through the window instead.

Shit.

My neighbors laugh and clap while I just stand frozen for a moment with my mouth gaped open. It’s a good thing he isn’t home.

I hurry back to the SUV, climb inside, and get the hell out of there as fast as I can before someone decides to call the cops.

* * *

It’s a long nine-hour drive from Southern Oregon back to the home where I grew up in Seattle. My parents sold the family house to my brother when they took off for Florida for early retirement. I loved that house growing up. It was the place where all my friends gravitated toward. If there was ever a sleepover or party, it always took place at my house. I was lucky to have such cool parents who didn’t mind a house bursting at the seams with teenagers. I don’t know too many other parents who would be that cool with it. Especially when my brother and his jock friends would get home from school and raid the pantry.

When it came to my friends, I think they just wanted to come over because of my neighbor. I couldn’t blame them because he was my childhood crush as well.

His name was Mac Stillwell, and he was perfection. An amazing athlete, all smooth, sleek muscle and bronzed skin. His body was a work of art. He and my brother were on the same soccer team. They were rivals because Mac was always just a hair better at everything, which was why Mac was never over at the house with the rest of them. No one ever found out that I went to every game just to secretly cheer on Mac.

I was infatuated, and seeing him every day was the best sweetest torture I could imagine. He was a total jock like the rest of the guys on his team, always in his garage lifting weights or jogging around the neighborhood in soccer shorts and shirtless. For such a celebrated athlete, he didn’t seem to have many friends—probably because my brother hoarded them all. Mac spent a lot of his time alone in the halls at school or in some corner, always with a black hoody on, draped over his face as if he were trying to shut out the world.

Could be because his mom was sick a lot. I heard my parents talk about it. My mom used to bring them food because Mac’s mom was single and having a hard time. He moved away shortly after high school to become a pro-soccer player. I kept his games saved on my DVR. My boyfriend at the time hated how I would delete his shows to make room for Mac’s games, and how I hated to be bothered while watching them.

I heard that Mac’s mom died recently, so I imagine the house next door has sold by now. I wonder what the new neighbors are like.

When I get into town I see that nothing has changed since I left except for the new carwash on the corner downtown. Driving through the neighborhood brings back so many good memories and I’m already feeling much better.

I pull up in front of my childhood home. It’s the same, but with a fresh coat of paint. My brother, Nathan, has really kept the place up. Mom’s flower garden is still thriving, the lawn is green and evenly mowed. The tire swing is still hanging from the huge oak tree we loved to climb. Many good times had played out on that old swing. We’d twist each other up until the rope was taut as a bowstring, then let it fly and hold on for dear life. It had been there before my parents bought the house. Once, when the rope was old and frayed, Nathan was pushing me as high as I could go and the damn thing snapped. Almost flung me into the clothes line where mom had been hanging freshly washed sheets.

Luckily, I landed on the tire and bounced before hitting the ground. My mom lost her mind and I had to convince her not to dial 911. The worst I got was a couple scrapes on the knee—still have the scars to prove it. Because my mom was squeamish when it came to blood, Nathan had taken me to the kitchen sink to clean my wounds. He’s the best brother a girl could ask for. Since then, Nathan has switched out the rope with the best he could find. The kind of durable rope rock climbers use—though I doubt we’ll be as harsh on that swing now that we’re adults.

Looking at the old oak tree reminds me of the time when my beloved Persian cat escaped from the house and got stuck on a tall branches I couldn’t reach. Mac heard me crying from next door and came over. He was brave enough to climb out on the limbs. That might’ve been the exact moment I became obsessed with him, but it’s hard to say for sure. There’s not a single moment of my childhood and adolescence that I can remember when he didn’t dominate my thoughts and dreams.

I’m starting to warm up to the idea of being back home with Nathan and my old memories. Hard to believe it’s been five years since I moved away. I rarely came home after I moved. My parents and Nathan always came to Oregon during the holidays to be with me because they were never comfortable with me driving all that way alone.

Getting out of the car, I glance next door at Mac’s old house. It looks the same as well. I guess the new owners liked it the way it was. There’s a muscle car parked out front. A classic Dodge Challenger, black with white racing stripes, wide racing tires, and a scoop on the hood. That is one a sexy car. Probably has to stop at every gas station it comes across. I wonder who it belongs to.

I go to the back of my car and lift the hatch to unload my things. I grab the heaviest box and start to head toward the house. That’s when Mac comes around the front of the Challenger, holding a hose and bucket. I’m so startled to see him again that I drop my box. Everything on the top spills out when it hits the ground, and the sound of breaking glass is unmistakable. I hope it isn’t anything important. I have a ridiculous amount of Seattle Whalers soccer memorabilia I’ve been collecting since Mac joined the team. They are my most prized possessions—now I just have to make sure no one sees them.

Mac turns to face me when he hears the box drop. He looks confused at first, and then surprised.

“Holy shit, is that little Wanda McCall?” Mac says, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

My mouth falls open, surprised that he recognizes me, and even more floored that he knows my name. I walk toward him on stiff legs. Every muscle in my body aches from the long drive, and the nerves I feel seeing him again aren’t helping matters. I put my hands in the pockets of my shorts so he doesn’t see them shaking. I need to play this cool. He has no idea I’ve been obsessed with him my entire life.

“Mac Stillwell, it’s been a while,” I say, cool, calm, and collected. I try to stop smiling, but I can’t. I think my face is frozen this way, just as my parents warned me when I was a child.

As soon as I get close to him, his scent wafts toward me and I swoon. He smells like soap and car leather and fresh cut grass. I breathe him in until I’m light headed. I want a perfume that smells just like him. I would bathe in it.

“A few years,” he says.

He’s been keeping track? I’m puzzled. Growing up, I was certain I was invisible because he never once said hi to me, or even looked at me except for the time he saved my cat.

Gazing into his copper-colored eyes, I notice his gaze darting between my eyes, my lips, my neck—and a lightning quick glance at my cleavage spilling out of my V-neck t-shirt—then back to my eyes again. He has this look on his face that is both curious and taken aback, as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

“You look different,” he says, then he laughs. “Sorry. I just remember you as that little freckle-faced tom-boy who always had skinned knees.”

I laugh too. “Still have the skinned knees. I’m perpetually clumsy.”

“You’ve really grown up.” He glances at my breasts again. My heart starts to hammer in my chest. I study him too. He’s filled out quite nicely. Before, when he first left to play pro soccer, he was lean—bordering skinny—but now he’s bulked up. He looks more like a man than the boy I remember. Though I’ve seen him a million times on TV and in magazines, I’m surprised just how large he really is. And tall too. How do I not remember him being this tall? The top of my head barely reaches his shoulders.

Up close, I see all of his beautiful tattoos. I read in a magazine that he got one after each of his championships. Both of his arms are covered from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers, so clearly he has a lot of wins under his belt. Doesn’t surprise me. He was always the best. There’s one tattoo on his neck that particularly stands out. It’s a fancy cursive W with a four leaf clover next to it. I wonder if it stands for Whalers, though his team has a trident as their logo, not a four leaf clover. I’m fairly certain Mac himself isn’t Irish due to his tan skin and dark hair and eyes. I wonder what it means. Maybe an old girlfriend, or a current one—though I’m sure the tabloids would’ve mentioned a relationship. I try not to think too much about it.

“Didn’t you used to have a huge crush on me?” he asks. The way his smile tilts higher in one corner sends a shiver down my spine. How is he even more beautiful than I remember? I didn’t think it was physically possible. I have a poster of him that I bought at one of his games that I stare at constantly, and yet he looks so different in person. There’s a warmth there that can’t be captured in photos. It’s something you have to see for yourself to really appreciate.

“What? No, not at all,” I say, voice shaky with the lie.

“Really?” he says, not believing a word of it. “Because I remember you following me around at school a lot, and watching me from the treehouse, and sometimes from your room that has a pretty good view into mine.”

My face goes numb. Am I still smiling? It’s hard to tell. I swallow back the embarrassment. I was a kid. It’s not like I was caught stalking him minutes ago, I have nothing to be embarrassed about.

“I didn’t do that. Maybe you were just so used to having admirers that you mistook me for one of them,” I say.

He’s not wrong, of course. I did used to watch him from various vantage points around the house. I just didn’t know that he knew, and now I’m feeling so bad for my younger self. I thought I was so sneaky. Guess not.

I don’t know if I would’ve stopped watching him even if I had known he was paying attention. I couldn’t help myself. It’s not like he was closing his curtains or doing anything to keep me from watching him. Because of his rigorous workout schedule, his movements, right down to the time he brushed his teeth at night, could be calculated down to the minute. Every night, before I would go to bed, I watched as he would change his clothes and climb under the covers—if he knew I was watching, why did he let me? I never did see him naked. He must have done that in the bathroom—I guess I know why now. I always watched closely, though, just in case.

“I’m not wrong,” he says playfully. “And if you don’t admit it, you’ll be sorry.” He lifts the nozzle of the hose up and points it at me.

My eyes spring open and I let out a burst of nervous laughter. “You wouldn’t.”

He looks up as if considering it. “Are you sure about that?”

“You better not,” I say, pretending like I’m about to run, but in truth, I’m not going anywhere. It’s hot as hell outside—unseasonably so for Seattle—and being doused with a hose sounds nice at the moment.

His hand flexes on the nozzle of the hose, smile growing wider. “All you have to do is admit you were obsessed with me.”

“Never.”

“Is that your final answer?” he says, giving me an out, but I’m not about to cave and admit to anything.

“Yep.”

He sprays me. Right on the front of the shirt.

I yelp, and open my arms. My shirt clings to my chest and is completely see-through. Though I was prepared to get soaked, I was not prepared for just how cold the water would be. My nipples are as hard as diamonds and standing proud for Mac to see.

His laughter winds down into a chuckle, and then to an appreciative smile when he sees them.

My skin is covered in goosebumps and my teeth start to chatter. Even though it’s hot outside, it’s not hot enough for the freezing water to feel good.

“I told you I would do it,” Mac says.

I fluff out my shirt, but it sticks right back to my skin. A wet t-shirt might not have quite the impact with some other girls as it does with me, someone who has a bountiful D cup. My breasts definitely don’t go unnoticed by Mac. He licks his lips like a hungry wolf, and though he tries to look me in the eyes, his gaze snaps right back to my chest.

I’m wearing a bra, but it’s a thin lace one, and the pinks of my areolas shine through. Looking down, there’s not much left to the imagination. In any normal situation, I’d put my arms over my chest and try to hide, but with the way Mac is staring at me, I have no intention of hiding anything. I like the way he’s looking at me. It’s the way I’d always wanted him to, like I’m more than just his rival’s bratty sister.

“You’re shivering,” Mac says. He puts the hose down and steps toward me, running his hands down my goosebumped arms. “Come inside, I’ll get you a towel.”

The look he gives me leaves no mistake about his intentions. I ask myself if I’m ready to go this far, this fast with the guy I’ve been obsessed with my whole life. Am I ready to lose my virginity? I believe I am. I’ve been wishing for this moment for a long time and after being cheated on and rejected for so long. I need this.

I follow Mac into the house. It’s nicely decorated with distressed leather furniture and large framed photos of Seattle on the walls. There’s the Space Needle, a ferry, and different buildings in town. There are also photos of Mac and his teammates from the Whalers decorating the flat surface of a hutch.

He leads me toward the back of the house. At first I think he’s taking me to the bathroom down the hallway, but then we turn into his bedroom. I’ve seen this room from my bedroom window a million times, but never thought I would actually be inside someday. It’s so surreal. I look around, taking everything in. Nothing has changed. It’s as if it’s been suspended in time. The room was never very childish. There was nothing to ever indicate the room belonged to a teenage boy except for the soccer poster on the back of the door. Everything is tidy and put in its place. The bed is made. In the corner, there’s a desk and chair where he used to do his homework. On the bedside tables are the same lamps and an old fashioned alarm clock.

He disappears into the bathroom attached to the room and comes out with a fluffy towel. I start to reach for it, but he says, “Let me help you.”

He starts to pat me dry, beginning with the tips of my hair that cling together. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my face and see the star-shaped pattern in his irises. I have to look up to see him, and when our eyes meet, he starts to dry my chest.

I pull in a sharp breath, my chest heaving beneath his hands.

“We should get you out of these wet clothes,” he says, his voice a husky whisper.

I nod in agreement, unable to create words with my tangled tongue.

He drops the towel and reaches for the hem of my shirt, slowly peeling it off me. I lift my arms, and he pulls the shirt over my head. It hits the ground with a wet splat.

A low rumble sounds in his chest when he sees my breasts without the shirt. He adjusts himself. The massive hard-on beneath his shorts is clearly evident. My entire body starts to quiver with anticipation. How did this even happen? How did I go from being a miserable mess just hours ago to living out my adolescent fantasy? This can’t be real. But then Mac pinches my nipples through my bra and sends a shockwave through my entire body. This is definitely real.

He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. It falls to the ground. He seems mesmerized by my breasts, his eyes wide and full of want. He slowly reaches for them, caressing the swell of the sides, circling them with his palm the way a psychic would handle a crystal ball. When his thumbs graze my erect nipples, I jump a little at the sensation. Mac’s eyes flicker to mine and he watches my face as he leans over to taste one.

My mouth parts and I move his dark hair away from his face so I can watch him devour my breast with perfect clarity. His lips clasp around my nipple and my whole body starts to shake. When he starts to suck on it, I can feel it in my clit, as if those two body parts are somehow connected. My fingers tangle in his hair. I close my eyes, reveling in this incredible feeling.

Wetness forms between my legs, and I know it has nothing to do with being sprayed by the hose. The need to have him inside of me is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Sure I masturbate, and I’ve had many mild, self-made clitoral orgasms, but this feeling is different. This want, this need for him, is more powerful than anything I’m used to.

The tips of my fingers dig into his scalp as he sucks harder. When he pulls away to go to the other breast, my nipple and areola are bright pink.

When he’s done with my other breast, he looks at me, his lips just as pink and raw as my breasts.

“Admit it, you had a crush on me,” he says.

I chuckle. “We’re doing this again?”

His smile nearly knocks me over. He’s so sexy it takes my breath away. “Yeah, we’re doing this again. If you had fantasies about me in high school, I want to make sure I live up to them. I can’t have you going to your friends and telling them I’m better on the field than in the bed—I have a reputation to protect.”

My chuckle turns to full blown laughter. “Trust me, nothing about this moment is a disappointment.”

“Did you ever catch me masturbating?” he asks as he starts to rub his dick through the outside of his shorts. I watch, rapt, my mouth starting to water. My body hums and the wetness between my legs just went from a mere trickle to Niagara Falls.

“No, but I tried.”

“Finally, you admit it,” he says triumphantly.

“Fine, yes, I admit I used to watch you.”

“Were you hoping to see this?” he says, and pulls down his shorts to reveal the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. He has a tendency to render me speechless. I nod instead.

“Touch it,” he says.

I reach out and run my fingers against the silky smooth skin of the shaft. He shivers at my touch. The head is engorged and slick with precum. It glistens in the sunlight coming through the window. How can something hard as steel feel soft as velvet at the same time? I want to put my face against is, feel the soft skin against my cheek, but that would be weird, so I settle with just touching it instead.

He moans as I start to stoke him with slow, even motions. His wetness drips onto my hand, making it slick.

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against mine and says, “You’re good at that.”

He presses his lips against mine. Long, slow pecks at first. Then his mouth opens and so does mine, our tongues find each other and tangle together in greeting. Already everything about this encounter with him is different than anyone else I’ve ever fooled around with before. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want him. Any doubts I had about losing my virginity to this man have completely disappeared.

Just kissing him is a sexual experience of its own. I could be content with just this, his lips against mine, stealing his breath and giving it back. The faster I stroke him, the harder his lips press down, the more urgent the kiss becomes. He bites my bottom lip, sucks my tongue into his mouth.

With my empty hand, I explore his bare chest, his arms. His muscles flex, his body rigid and I know he’s close. I don’t want it to end, but I want to bring him pleasure, and that’s more important to me right now than getting mine.

I stroke him faster.

His mouth opens and he’s no longer kissing me, but his mouth remains on mine, his breathing comes out in bursts.

“Oh fuck,” he says as he erupts. His warm wetness spills onto my hand. When he’s done he leans heavily against me. I pick the towel up off the floor and clean myself off.

When we’re both clean, I reach for my bra, but he grabs my hands. “What are you doing?” he says.

I look at him, confused. “Getting dressed.”

He laughs like I just said something funny. “You think we’re done here?”

“Um, I thought so?”

I haven’t given a ton of hand jobs in my twenty-three years, but I’ve given a few, and typically when a guy gets off, it’s like the curtains closing on a play: that’s all folks.

“Hell no. I’m nowhere near done with you yet,” he says, and grabs me by the waist, pulling me toward him.

He’s still hard. How the hell is that even possible?

He unbuttons my shorts at the same time that he walks me toward the bed. When I feel the mattress at the back of my knees, I sit. He puts his hand on my chest and slowly pushes me back so that I’m lying down, then he pulls off my shorts and underwear at the same time.

Spreading my legs open, he kneels before me as if about to worship me, his expression cloudy with lust. “You’re so sexy,” he says, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the space between my legs to meet mine. I know that lust-drunk gaze myself. I felt the same way when I saw him naked.

“Touch yourself,” he says. It’s not a request. His tone has dipped into a demand, and lets me know who is in charge of the situation. I smile inwardly and put my hand between my legs and start to rub my clit. I’m wet down there as I knew I would be, my finger slipping and sliding against the soft skin.

He watches with his hand between his legs. From here I can’t see what he’s doing, but the way his muscles flex across his shoulders and chest, I can only guess he’s stroking himself.

“Spread your lips,” he tells me. I do as I’m told. “Wider.”

“Mmm, you have such a pretty pussy,” he says, his breath uneven as he touches himself. “Now put your finger inside.”

I do, but I’m halfway in when I hit the barrier.

“All the way in,” he says.

I try, but it doesn’t budge. “I can’t.”

He looks curiously at me and moves my hand to the side to use his own finger. He tries to go all the way in but hits that same wall. His eyes widen when he looks at me, and I wonder if I should’ve told him before we started.

“You’re a virgin?” he says, surprised.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say and take his hand in mine, urging him to go back to fingering me. It feels so good to be touched this way.

“Wanda, we can’t—”

“Yes we can.” I sit up and wrap my arms around him so he can’t go anywhere. With him kneeling on the ground and me sitting on the bed, we’re at eye level, and I’m able to look into his copper gaze. “I’ve wanted this with you for so long. If ever there was anyone I want to give my virginity to, it’s you.”

His mouth parts like he might say something, but then his lips crash against mine in an urgent kiss. He climbs up my body until he’s lying on top of me. He’s a hard mass of lean muscle, crushing me under his weight, and it feels so good and safe to be under him. His cock—hard like the rest of him—cradles between my legs. He rubs himself against the slippery opening, but doesn’t try to push inside yet. It feels amazing either way. I moan into his mouth and spread my legs wider.

“Fuck me,” I beg him when the intensity of the rubbing becomes too much. Now I need him inside.

“Are you sure?” he says against my mouth.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

“I don’t care. I need you,” I say desperately.

He smiles, his teeth against my lips. He positions the head of his cock at my opening. My mouth parts when it slips in. He bites my bottom lip and fucks me with just the head for a moment, and it’s exquisite. It feels so good that I don’t want it to stop. If this is any indication as to how it feels to be fucked by the whole thing, I start to regret not having sex sooner. I wonder if sex with any man would be this incredible, or is it just because it’s Mac?

He starts to push against the barrier and my eyes spring open and pain shoots through every part of my body.

I let out a yelp and he stops immediately. “Did I hurt you?” he says, his voice full of concern.

“No, it just surprised me, is all.”

He starts to pull out but I stop him. “No, please. I want it.”

“Okay,” he says and kisses me again, this time watching my eyes, focusing on my expression. He pushes again, and this time I focus all my attention on him, the way he’s looking at me, the way he manages to make me feel things I’ve never felt for anyone before him. With another push, he sinks all the way into me and I gasp. The pain only lasts a second or two before subsiding. He stays inside of me, not moving. He moves the bangs off of my forehead.

“Do you want me to keep going?” The fact that this rugged athlete who commands a professional soccer team can be so gentle and concerned about my well-being is endearing. I find myself falling just a little bit harder for him and wanting him that much more.

As soon as the pain is gone, my body warms up to this new full feeling inside of me. I feel pleasure and comforted at the same time. “Keep going,” I tell him and rock my hips forward to urge him on.

He moves slowly. I moan at the unfamiliar sensation. This is good, I think. This is really good. I match his gentle thrusts with my own until my clit slaps against his pubic bone. Now this is even better. Pleasure comes from the outside and within at the same time, and I start to lose myself to it. My body starts to loosen up. The less tense I am, the better it starts to feel. Moaning and whimpering comes from my mouth without me even realizing it.

He grabs my hips and starts to thrust harder, taking off the training wheels. I let out an appreciative cry of approval.

“Get on your hands and knees. I want to see that ass,” he says. The sweet, gentle man who was just concerned about my comfort, shifts back to the alpha who ordered me to finger myself. I find that I like both sides of him equally.

He pulls out and I hate the empty feeling. I move quickly, turning over onto my hands and knees so that I can be filled up once again.

“Oh, fuck,” I cry as he drives into me from behind. It feels different this way, as if he’s gone deeper. Each time I think it can’t get any better, it does. And now I’m writhing, my hips gyrating against him.

“That’s a sexy round ass,” he says and gives it a quick slap.

I yelp and press my cheek to the pillow. “Feels so good,” I say as he rams into me.

It’s a good thing we’re alone because the springs in the bed are crying out just as much as I am, and the headboard slams against the wall. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a dent in the wall by the time we’re done.

We fuck like this for at least twenty minutes when he suddenly lifts my body up and into his arms. He somehow manages to stay inside of me as he leans back and places me on top of him. Now I’m riding him, reverse cowgirl style. I’m briefly self-conscious about his view from behind me. I have wide hips and a slightly larger ass than some girls, but judging by the way he squeezes my ass cheeks, he can’t seem to get enough.

When he reaches around the front of me and touches my clit, I nearly come out of my skin. I toss my head back. He grabs a hand full of my hair and holds on while I continue to impale myself on him. My body shivers and quakes as I’m brought closer to the edge.

It’s a completely different experience to have an orgasm by being stimulated from within as well as being touched outwardly as well. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I wouldn’t even know what to compare it to. Before it happens, a sort of numbness starts in my center. There’s pressure similar to a period cramp, but not painful. This numbing pressure starts to spread through the rest of my body and my knees get weak and shaky, but I don’t want to stop this feeling rolling through me. It’s the strangest sensation; almost like I have to pee, and for a moment I start to have some doubts. But I’ve heard that about real orgasms somewhere, so I don’t try to fight it, afraid it will go away before we it gets to the good part. I can feel it growing, becoming something bigger and more powerful until it’s unstoppable. Once it reaches that point, it’s like the sun exploding, like something inside of me breaking apart. Though I try to stay relaxed, my muscles clinch, and Mac makes a sound, and I know he can feel it.

“Fuck, that pussy’s tight,” he says, almost as if he’s in pain. But that’s the thing about sex I’m starting to realize. It’s a mixture of both and I love every second of it.

He thrusts harder into me, but I’m so tightly clinched around him that he’s not able to move much, and by the intense growl he lets out, I know he’s found his release again as well.

His movements slow, then stop, but he doesn’t pull out right away. He holds my hips and stays inside of me. We’re both out of breath and out of strength. I’m so sensitive inside that I can feel the warmth of his cum in me, as well as the moment he starts to soften. When my muscles finally relax, I sit up. He slips out of me and I flop down on the bed next to him.

We lay panting and sweating, our bodies melded to each other as he rolls onto his side and wraps his arm around my waist. I don’t know how long we’ve been going at it, but it feels like a long time.

“I should go,” I say, sitting up. He reluctantly lets go of me and folds his arms behind his head. His body glistens, cheeks flushed, lips raw from kissing. He’s truly the most beautiful creature on this earth.

He smiles lazily, his eyes hooded. He looks exhausted. “Don’t go. Spend the rest of the day with me. Let’s go for a drive, watch the ferries come in.”

He reaches for my hands and laces our fingers together. Spending the rest of the day with Mac would be the perfect ending to this dream I’m in, but I can’t.

“My brother’s going to be home soon. He’ll have questions.” I glance down at my phone and see that an hour has passed since I first arrived in town. Where did the time go? Nathan will be home in less than thirty minutes—if he doesn’t get home early. I can’t think of a more horrifying scenario than him coming home and seeing me walking out of Mac’s house, shimmering in the afterglow of sex.

“Shit,” I say, scrambling to get dressed. “I’m sorry. I texted Nathan an hour ago, letting him know I was in town. He’ll wonder why all of my boxes are still in my car.”

Mac nods in understanding. He and my brother have been enemies since our childhood. Their rivalry even went as far as a small fight on the soccer field their junior year of high school. Mac, of all people, will understand the ramifications of me being seen with him.

He reaches over to the bedside table. In the drawer, he pulls out a pen and sticky note and scribbles something down on it. While he does that, I hurriedly pull on my shorts and the rest of my clothes.

He hands me the note. It’s his cell number. “In case you want to go another round sometime.”

I put the number in my pocket and smile at him. “Count on it,” I say.

I rush out of the house and run across the street, making it to my car just as Nathan’s truck rounds the corner onto our street.