I should get up. I should tear my thoughts from the past--from Dallas. I should be doing about a million things other than masturbating, my legs shamelessly wide and my thoughts on the man I want between them.
But I don't stop. I won't stop.
I want this. I think I even need it. And this time I close my eyes and let myself slide back into the past again.
I think about the night before he left for boarding school and the story he'd told me in the dark about how much he'd craved our first real kiss that night, and how hot he thought I looked even in a stupid Looney Tunes T-shirt.
And I remember the wonder in his eyes when he'd first seen me naked in that dark, dank room, lit only by the dim glow of a flickering yellow bulb.
I think about the way his hands felt, so strong and sure even at fifteen. And I recall the way his fingers had roamed, exploring every inch of me, making my skin quiver. He'd been so sweet the first time, so afraid of hurting me. But I'd welcomed the pain, because it was Dallas giving it to me. Not strangers in the dark. Not shadows and monsters.
I'm so wet, and I buck my hips and quicken the small circles as I stroke my clit, as I think about other times. His touch, his mouth, his cock. I imagine he's inside me now, his body warm against mine, his voice whispering that it will be okay. That we're together. That it will all be fine.
And it's that voice that takes me higher and higher. I cling to the memory of it as I touch myself with more urgency. As I whimper and shift and try to find satisfaction. And then, finally, as I explode, my cry echoing through my quiet bedroom.
I gasp and try to gather myself, but I'm spent, utterly limp. And it's only when I let my head drift to the side that I realize it's now four-thirty and all I've managed is a shower and an orgasm. I have to get all the way to Brody's apartment in the Village by five.
I scramble out of bed and pull on a stretchy cotton maxi skirt and a funky, flowy top I bought on my last trip to Lon
don. I'm searching for my sandals and wondering how long it will take to get a cab when the doorbell chime reverberates through the floor.
I ignore it at first, but when it chimes again, I remember that it's Ellen's day off and hurry downstairs. There's a security camera camouflaged inside the porch light, and when I glance at the monitor at the base of the stairs, I gasp.
I'd expected a delivery. Maybe a neighbor.
Instead, it's Dallas.
For a moment I consider pretending like I'm not home. For one thing, I'm in a hurry to get to Brody's and don't really have time to talk. For another, considering what I'd just been thinking--what I'd just been doing--I'm feeling a tad awkward about letting him in. As if he'll be able to smell his scent on me. As if he'll look in my eyes and know that I touch myself while thinking of him.
But I can't quite bring myself to ignore him. After all, I'll be spending time with him on the island this weekend, so I probably could use the practice. And besides, I was the one who invited him over. I was the one who said we should get together. That we should try to be friends.
And now here he is, outside on my stoop.
And here I am, inside eating my words.
I draw a breath, push the button to unlock the door to the foyer, and hurry to meet him.
"Hey," I say as I pull open the door and invite him in. I'm certain my smile is awkward, and I can't help but feel like he's about to take me to prom. It's an awkward, twitchy feeling, but I remind myself that the point of this exercise is to get comfortable around him again. A little twitchiness is to be expected.
"Right. So come on in." My words are really not necessary as he's already stepped into the room, looking like he belongs here. Which, of course he does, as it was once one of his family homes, too.
He's carrying a canvas grocery bag and he holds it up with one hand and reaches inside with his other. When he pulls out a Resident Evil game cartridge, I have to laugh.
"You were serious?"
"I'm always serious about zombies." His tone is bland, which only makes me laugh harder.
"You are going to be so disappointed," I say.
"You're that good?"
"I'm that bad," I admit. "Truly. I've got a friend with an old Pac-Man in his living room. Even that's too much game for me."
His lips twitch with amusement--which is unfortunate as I find myself remembering just how they feel against my skin. "This isn't a problem," he assures me. "I like to win."
"Well, then you're going to love playing with me."
"I know I will."