Page 87 of Guy's Girl
She exhales in surprise.
“Do you like that?” he whispers.
She whimpers quietly in response.
Soft lips press to her collarbone, just above the neck of her T-shirt. “I like it, too,” he says against her skin. “I want to feel more of you.”
She says, “I’m afraid.”
All at once, he pulls back. His eyes, black circles illuminated by the moonlight, are wide with alarm. “Should I stop?”
“No! No. God, no.”
Adrian’s mouth crooks into a small smile at how fervent her reply is.
“I just mean—I, um. I mean. The last time we were together, I was... you know...”
“Bulimic.”
She nods.
“And you’re afraid that I won’t like the way that you look now.”
She nods again.
“Ginny.” Adrian lowers onto one elbow, using the other to lay his palm against her face. “Bulimia is a disease. You were sick. You still are, but you’re recovering, and you’re doing an amazing job. And if I ever, ever make you feel like you have to go back to your illness to feel attractive,” he says, moving his hand down her cheek and cupping her chin with his palm, “I want you to get my grandpa’s hunting rifle out of the basement, take me out back, and shoot me.” He pauses, eyes searching. “Okay?”
She laughs. Or maybe it’s a quiet sob, she doesn’t know.
“You don’t ever have to be afraid with me.”
“Okay,” she says.
And then Adrian presses his lips to hers, and whatever she was thinking before sort of melts away because his hands are running down her sides now, slipping under the soft cotton waistband of her shorts.
“The last time we had sex,” he asks, “did you come?”
She hesitates. Considers lying. That’s what she’s always done,right? Lie to preserve the man’s feelings, lie so that it can be over when it’s gone on too long and it’s starting to hurt. But with Adrian... she doesn’t feel the need to lie. To pretend or put on any kind of a show.
“No,” she says.
Adrian leans back. He tilts his head, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to be angry. To demand to know why she lied. Instead, he says, “All right, then. Teach me how.”
“To be honest?” she says. “I’ve never come from regular sex. The kind you see in porn, where the girl is just bobbing up and down on top of the man? It’s never worked for me. But I know how to do it to myself. I can teach you that.”
He nods. She takes his right hand, the one cradling her ass, and moves it around to lie on top of her pelvis. He presses down lightly, entering her with just the tip of his middle finger, and she lets out a little whimper.
“You’re wet,” he says.
She nods. Then she lays her hand atop his, matching their fingers to one another. “Okay. Start like this.” She presses his fingers, then starts moving them in little circles. His fingers are long and lithe, just like the rest of his body. They pick up her rhythm quickly. She lifts her pelvis upward, already wanting to feel him inside her.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Just relax. What’s next?”
She pulls his fingers up, laying them atop the sensitive little bump at the top. She pushes his fingers from side to side, the pressure harder than before, the movement faster. A little groan escapes her mouth.
“Now,” she says, breath coming faster, “play with me.”
And he does. Or, rather—they do, together, her hand atop his. His touch is light, barely there at all, but it presses against all the right places, sending little shudders up through her stomach. Herbreath deepens. She whispers his name, and he makes a noise at the back of his throat. She can’t tell who is controlling the movement at this point—whether it’s him, or her, or both of them, no distinction at all.
