Left Drowning(18)

With both hands, I push his black hair from his face and run my fingers through it and then down his shoulders. I take my time because I want to take in everything that I can about him and absorb all the details of his face. How the curve of his eyebrows is so beautifully arched, how the hint of a sideburn blends into his unshaven cheek, and how he bites his lip as I study him. And more than that, I see both our kinship and our differences: how we both have pasts full of pain and how he emanates survival in the way that I want to. Right now, I embody failure and surrender, but I see in him the possibility of what I could have.

So his touch is more than just physical touch.

Under my bra, Chris covers my breast with his hand and strokes me slowly with his thumb. I’m not prepared for the powerful ache that surges between my legs as he tightens his fingers around my nipple, and I drop my head back slightly. I arch my back some, pushing my breast against him, wanting more. For a second more, he pinches my nipple, but then moves his hand away. I nearly whimper, but then he leans into me and kisses me again. Harder this time. He tastes like eternity, and healing, and completion.

No one else could ever kiss me like this, of that I am positive.

I could breathe him in forever.

I could fall in love forever.

It is impossible to deny that I am clearly starved for physical contact, for sexual contact, but that still doesn’t entirely explain how desperately I want to tear off this boy’s clothes after I’ve shied away from everyone else. Never have I been so turned on. I move to the very edge of the bed and drop my hands to Chris’s lower back, bringing him against me. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tightly as he presses his waist between my legs. His lips are sealed against mine, his tongue perfect. I cannot get close enough to him, and I want more. I want everything. It doesn’t make sense. I barely know him, and it isn’t as though I’ve been whoring around campus for the past three years. This is the most intimate that I have ever been with anyone, physically or emotionally.

Right now, I know that this is right, even though it’s baffling. Chris has tapped into the small part of me that still seeks hope. And pleasure.

His mouth moves to my neck, his lips grazing against my skin and his breath heated. The only downside to lifting the back of his shirt is that he has to take his lips from my skin so that I can pull it over his head.

Holy hell, he’s gorgeous.

I touch his chest. As I’d seen when we were by the lake, he is all muscle. Lean, and defined, and utterly incomparable. And now I get to have my hands on him. Mesmerized by his body, I follow the lines of his chest muscles with my hand, tracing my fingers across his nipples, down to his abs, and still to the faint trail of hair that leads into his jeans. Then I work my way back up again, aware that I could do this for hours. Chris groans softly. There is no insecurity about what I am doing nagging at me, no doubt about how to touch him. Feeling his body, exploring him, is intuitive. Just having my hands on this boy seems like it could fulfill any lustful craving I have. He is absolutely captivating.

As he kneels in front of me, I lean in and sweep my lips over his chest, kissing and touching my tongue to him every now and then. His hands are in my hair, cradling me while I taste his body. Later, when my mouth knows every inch of his muscled chest, I lift my mouth to his. He does not hesitate and kisses me again. I lean back onto the bed, and he crawls into me, resting his weight against me. My hips press up into him as he kisses his way from my mouth to my breasts, over my shirt and down my stomach.

“Christopher.” I can’t help murmuring his name, and I have to stop myself from saying it over and over. I feel such relief to have found him.

Then his weight is on me again, and he kisses me deeply as he presses his body between my legs. I feel how hard he is, how much he wants me.

But then, without warning, he pushes up on his arms, panting a bit. He touches his cheek to mine, and I can feel that I’ve lost him. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but he is clearly stopping this before it goes any further. The sudden distance between us, the wall, threatens to wreck me. Whatever was there a few seconds ago is gone.

Chris kisses me lightly on the cheek and whispers, “I don’t … I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Oh. Okay.” I have no idea what to say or what has happened. And I don’t know why he hasn’t moved away from me or why he is trembling. So I ask. “Chris. Why are you shaking?”

“I’m not,” he says. But he totally is.

I brush my hands up and down his arms, wanting to touch him for as long he’ll let me. He drops his head into the crook of my neck as his breathing eases. I am so confused.

He lifts up on his arms. “I’m really supposed to be studying. Whopper geology test on Monday.”

I turn to the side and face away from him. “Of course. I’ve got tons to do, also.”

The next few minutes are awful. A horribly awkward scene while we extricate ourselves from each other’s hold; me, muttering an idiotic “thank you” for the help with my playlist, and Chris looking apologetic as he yanks on his shirt, only making me feel worse.

After a stupidly casual good-bye, I rush from his room before he can say anything else. The walk from his room up to mine is unforgivingly long. Talk about a walk of shame. I slam the door to my room and fling myself onto the bed.

I sniff. Well, f*ck, I certainly don’t smell great. That’s one problem. Perhaps my stench drove him away? It’s not like I planned on stripping off his shirt when I went to his room. I roll over and drop one hand to the floor. A few flights down, Christopher is probably now studying the boring layers of the earth or something, and here I am, all sorts of bewildered.