The Cunningham's and the Montgomery's have since long been feuding with one another. Dating decades back, the two families separate advertising companies in New York City have been competing to win over the most clients and become the most acclaimed...
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SEX, to me, had always been a minuscule thing. I could meet a girl and have sex with her the next day, sometimes even the same night. Because I had always thought of it as some meaningless thing. Why was sex such a big deal? Why did some people wait to fall in love to have sex? Why did some people wait until marriage as a whole? It had never made any sort of sense to me. So I threw around sex like it was a frisbee and any girl who could catch it is who I'd spend the night with.
But with Ava, things were different. One, because I knew I was her first boyfriend, her first kiss, and therefore would be her first time. Two, because the idea of sleeping with Ava wasn't a minuscule thing to either of us. So I didn't want to rush, I didn't want to push her, I didn't want to do anything that would set us off of the stable track we were on.
Last night it seemed we were both on the same page, though. And we didn't rush.
Every vivid detail was in my mind on replay: We'd eaten food in the gazebo that Nic had cooked ahead of time (following a complex Pinterest recipe), then talked and cuddled under a warm blanket while snow began to fall, and once I asked her not to leave for the night and she agreed, we were on our feet and into the house quickly, needing the warmth.
We kissed by the fireplace sitting on the couch facing each other. And she didn't mind when I pulled her to straddle my lap so I could have her closer, kiss her with more urgency, and keep my hands on her waist, the curve of her hips. We kissed rough and gentle at the same time, moving between urgent open mouths and biting lips to soft pecks and slowed movements. I didn't mind when she let her hands trail up my sweater and though her hands were cold from being outside so long, I pressed into her touch more and more, gaining warmth from the chill of her hands on my body. My shirt came off and she didn't seem to mind completely murdering me with her lips all over my torso.
I shook with rigor and excitement and so much love when Ava's lips kissed my bare shoulders down my arm. I breathed out heavily and laughed. "You're the one who's gonna murder me," I said.
She laughed onto my abdomen and I think it was a heart attack. "Should I stop then?"
I suppressed a groan. "You'll kill me if you stop."
And then it seemed everything was slow and tender and when she moved from my chest and my hands were the ones exploring her body, she gasped a little.
"Is this okay?" I'd asked it about a hundred times that night.
Ava had taken my hands and helped me with her shirt and then she came back to my lips, the softest butterfly of a kiss. "Yes. It's okay. With you, it's always okay."
And I was so completely, uselessly, tragically done.
We'd gone up to my room and she had been slightly more nervous, which I could understand. It had been slow. I'd taken it one step at a time, making sure not to push boundaries, making sure she wasn't scared or overwhelmed as more layers of clothing came off (more walls in between us being torn down) and we heated up the cold Winter night with our bodies and our mutual love and need to be as close as possible.
