Pretty Dumb

Chapter 14- Dylan

      All I can think is, daannnng. Because Lilah Green can kiss. Even though she's more drunk than an Irish sailor at an open bar wedding, she is an expert kisser. Kinda makes me wonder how many people she's kissed.

    Still gripping my biceps, Lilah bites her lip in a way that could make any guy go crazy. She says, slightly slurred,

     "That shirt looks great on you." Seriously?! I just had the best kiss of my life and she's complimenting me on my WARDROBE?! This is a new personal low for me. I mumble a confused,

   "Thanks?" She smirks.

      "But it would look even better on my floor." She responds. I gawk at her, utterly flabbergasted. Did Lilah Green just use a pickup line on me? And a dang good one too. Really, I've never heard that one before. And I hang out with Nate, who likes to call himself the "master of seduction." Welp, Nate, I think Lilah just stole your title.

      I am pulled out of my reverie by the feel of Lilah's hand tracing patterns along my arm. I try not to squirm from how ticklish it is. "So how about it?" She murmurs. "Wanna get out of here?"

      It's tempting. It's really tempting. But she is definitely gonna want sex, and I want my first time to be special. Besides, it doesn't take a genius to see that Lilah is extremely drunk, and I'm almost completely sober, having only had half a beer, and she might accuse me of taking advantage of her, although I get the feeling that girls like Lilah wouldn't really care. She seems pretty chill to me, and it's not like she hasn't had sex plenty of times before.

         I shake my head quickly.
    
     "Sorry Lilah, but I have to wait for someone." She shrugs, brushing my rejection off.

        "Alright, so why don't we dance while you're waiting," She suggests. I see no harm in that. It's just dancing, the most it'll lead to is making out and I've done that lots of times, with lots of girls, and Lilah is one of the hottest girl I've ever seen. I'd be stupid to pass up this opportunity. So I nod.

     "Sure," I tell her. "That would be great." She grabs my hand and drags me to the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room. "Girls Like You" by Maroon 5 is playing, and she positions herself in front of me.

        I wrap my hands around her torso, finding the strip of bare skin between her tiny top and gold shorts, and our hips move in sync to the beat. I have absolutely no rhythm, but she's a good enough dancer to make up for my lack of expertise.

       She stretches her arms up and winds her fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging gently. The sensation causes me to almost moan aloud, but I manage to hold it in.

       The movement of Lilah's butt grinding against my crotch inevitably gives me a hard on. My head spins. I can't think straight.

        Lilah turns around, pressing her chest against mine, and the contact makes me gasp. My breathing turns heavy. I may not have drunk much alcohol, but I am high on being this close to Lilah. And so when she whispers in my ear,

     "Your place or mine?" I respond with,

    "Mine, my parents aren't home." And how intoxicated I am by her mere presence is why when we make it back to my house and are making out, I don't tell her to stop. Not when our hands are wandering, not when our clothes are flung all over my room, not when she produces the condom she had in her bra. And so we don't stop until, thouroughly spent and exhausted, we fall asleep, our naked bodies pressed against each other.

...

      When I wake up the next morning she's gone, and I almost think that last night was a dream, until I look down and see the hickey on my chest. Thank God it's not on my neck, at least this will be covered up by a t-shirt, I think.