My Brothers Best Friend [18+]

Chapter Eleven

I was fifteen the first time I gave somebody an erection. 

My childhood bedroom was still covered in Winnie the Pooh stickers because mum refused to decorate it until Matt went to university, so it was rather embarrassing to have a boy over at the house in the first place. 

A single bed tucked into the corner with sunflower bed sheets. A wardrobe slightly-too-big for the wall so the door didn't open all the way. A vanity filled with the make-up I'd applied too much of in preparation for the date. 

He told me my room looked nice when I led him into it. 

We'd skipped school so mum was at work and Matt was tucked away in his A Level classes studying to no-end for his upcoming mock exams. Alone. Awkward. A rising tension in the air. 

He played football. He was cool. He pretended that he'd been in other girls rooms too. 

"So..." Hands in his pockets. "What d'ya wanna do?"

I can still feel the sudden thumping of my heart. My pulse at the tips of my fingers. 

Like every other relationship I'd had in school, we started speaking on FaceBook messenger, exuding a vast amount of confidence we couldn't replicate in real life. I was taken by his popularity status, he was taken by my sudden growth spurt that finally gave me the chest I'd been waiting for. 

All of my friends at the time had made out with a boy. Or so they told me - looking back, I think a lot of people lie about sex at that age. I was teased mercilessly for not having had my first real kiss at the age of fifteen. 

So when he asked if we could hang out alone one day, after three weeks of us playing twenty questions online in a mild attempt at flirting with each other, I invited him round in a flurry of desire to get it over with. 

"I could put on some music?" 

"Sure." A noncommittal shrug. Acting Cool. Calm. Collected. 

He played with his fingers when I sat down next to him, jean-clad leg brushing against my own; not so collected after all. 

One Direction flowed through the room and he teased me about the large poster of Harry Styles that clung to the back of my bedroom door. He asked about the glow in the dark stars glued onto the ceiling and talked about school football matches. 

I put a hand on his leg that displayed my well-bitten nails covered in chipped red nail polish. He was scrawny and cold and still talking about football.

Get it over with. Get it over with. Get it over with. 

"You must be really good at football." 

He wouldn't make the first move. He could barely look me in the eye. He kept pushing floppy hair away from his face and biting at his bottom lip. 

I had to be the confident one. 

In the back of my mind, I remember coming to the realisation that he was probably all talk. That he hadn't been in other girls bedroom. That maybe not everyone in our year was kissing or dry-humping anything they could get a leg over like I'd thought. 

Still, he was cute. So I leant my entire body closer to his and patiently waited for him to get the hint. 

I wasn't unpopular. Not a nerd. Not a teachers pet. Not someone who cried on the yearly camping trip because I missed my parents. 

My friends were quiet and sweet, therefore so was I. 

He was loud and rowdy and entirely the opposite personality in front of his friends. He had a teenage image to upkeep. But in my bedroom I had to make the first move - and so I did.