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Chapter 21

His bed is soft. I'm falling deeper and deeper into his mattress; it feels like quicksand. My legs are crossed underneath me, tucked safely under my ass, and I'm pretty sure I've made a weird looking, bug shaped imprint on his mattress. His bed smells like him. Like sunflowers and freshly brewed coffee and pine. Happiness. Comfort. Safety. His bed feels like him. Warm. Inviting. It feels like home.

The sun is falling down, disappearing under the wooden blinds attached to his bedroom window. Leftovers of sun and its rays are pinching at my skin. Tickling me. Seducing me. Trying to distract me. Trying to open me from the outside, to crawl inside of me, to set my insides on fire. It's too late, there's already a much sweeter distraction in front of me, igniting ten different kinds of flames in me, on me, everywhere around me.

My summer dress is lying somewhere on his bedroom floor, somewhere where my eyes can't reach. I'm wearing my yellow cotton panties with a mouse on my ass; so not sexy; so not attractive. My bra doesn't match the color of my panties, but it does push my boobs all the way up to my collar bone; I'm afraid he's going to be disappointed once he takes it off. I'm wearing my bra and my panties and gazillion little goosebumps on my skin.

I'm not as tan as I know to be during the summer, not fake winter-summer of Darling's own creation, but real summer when there's no school or homework or when lemonade doesn't come out of carton, but actual fruit growing in my parents backyard. I'm as white as cheese, as vanilla, but at least there are no white stripes or squares or triangles on my skin left from clothes blocking certain parts of my body from the sun. I'm afraid my arms and legs are too bony, but at the same time I'm afraid that I have too many fat rolls on my stomach. His eyes traveling up and down my body make me feel so insecure, so small, so not enough.

He takes his shirt off; his trousers are already resting on his bedroom floor, keeping company to my dress; I inhale, then exhale, then inhale again. He looks like he's made out of marble. So many years of doing farm work has really paid off for him in the long run. Lifting bales of hay, feeding animals, fixing trucks, mowing lawns, all of that hard work has turned his body into a sculpture. All thanks to freaking wonderful mother nature.

I can see how hard he is underneath his boxers. I'm not going to think 'and I like what I see' or something similar to that, not because I'm not that type of a girl, but because I'm seven times of having sex, 26 minutes and 47 seconds of an entire span of 16 years I've been on this Earth, away from being a virgin. I've seen only one cock in my life, I have no right to say that I like what I see, or something along those lines.

He comes closer to me, and I start leaning backwards, pushing my back towards the mattress until I can finally feel soft cotton of his sheet pressing against my skin. He's standing in front of me, his knees pressed against the edge of his bed; I close my eyes, I blink, I open them, and he's on top of me, my ribs poking at his chest.

He kisses my neck. His lips wrap around my skin, sucking it dry, and I elevate the small of my back from the mattress, pushing my hips deeper, harder, stronger into his body. A soft moan escapes my lips and wraps all the way around his body. He places his arm in a free space between the mattress and my body; his palm pressing against my back; his fingers following my spine, upstream, downstream.

I wrap my arms around his neck, tightly; my fingers meet in the air; I cling on to him. I'm hanging on his body like a monkey hangs on a branch. I'm floating in the air, my body colliding with his.

Being with Tyler, having sex with Tyler, it wasn't like this. I would discard my clothes by myself and get under the covers. He would follow me. He would slip inside of me, no foreplay, no teasing; sometimes he would complain that I'm not wet enough, that it's going to hurt me and that it's going to be unpleasant for him, emphasis on the later, while I didn't even know that there's a right measure of wet a woman can be. I didn't know how to make myself wetter, and I didn't know what to tell him, so he would just sigh and push into me and he was right, it did hurt, at least in the beginning, but the pain would disappear after a minute or two, or maybe I would just get used to it. He would make several thrusts, pulling his cock in and out of me, never fully, always halfway, then he would grunt and it would all be over.