Page 2 of Conflict
One Year Earlier
MY NAMEis Alyssa Covington and I’m a twenty-five-year-old virgin.
Not for lack of trying. Ish.
Seriously. My V-card isn’t something precious I’m trying to hold on to. I don’t have religious beliefs that make me want to save myself until marriage. No, absolutely not. I’m a firm believer in test driving, because if life gives you sour lemons in the bedroom department, how the heck are you supposed to make delicious lemonade without knowing you’re going to need a whole lot of sugar?
I’ve just…never gotten to that pleasurable test drive. Sure, I’ve seen a few shiny models I wouldn’t have minded taking for a spin over the years, but I’ve never gotten to the point where the key goes into the ignition.
Or perhaps my baseball-loving cousin Lexi has a better metaphor for it. I’ve gone to first base, plowed right through second, and even rounded third with a dash toward home, yet I’ve never scored. Not even close.
I mentally take a trip down memory lane, feeling quite woe-is-me that I can count my sexual experiences on one hand.
The first pitch: It was Davey Richards. Yes, I know, not exactly the sexiest name on the block, but for a fourteen-year-old country boy, Davey was incredibly fitting. Davey was my first kiss. He was from a small town in Alabama and had the deep Southern twang to prove it. He was tall for eighth grade, already at least six feet, towering over my five-foot frame. I felt like Thumbelina next to him, and God, I loved it. His hair was the color of baled hay, and his eyes? Blue as the Georgian sky on the clearest of days.
When we touched hands as we both reached for the last Chipper Jones bobblehead at a Braves game, electricity sparked. It was as electrifying as whatever a fourteen-year-old girl could imagine. Davey gave me a lopsided grin and told me that Chipper was all mine, and it was practically love at first sight. We spent the rest of the game together, laughing and munching on popcorn and peanuts, and when the kiss cam didn’t showcase us, I was sorely disappointed. That feeling didn’t last long, however. During the seventh-inning stretch, he placed one arm around my shoulder, used his other hand to caress my cheek, and leaned in close. His lips brushed mine once, soft, sweet, and salty. Not exactly what I’d expected for my first kiss, but what did I know?
See? Baseball equals romance, even when you’re in eighth grade.
Alas, it was not meant to be. Davey went back to Brewton, and though we exchanged AOL instant messenger names, my first kisser faded into a summer memory as soon as freshman year of high school started.
First and second base: Since Davey was basically a peck on the lips and not much more, I don’t actually consider him as having reached a base. My real first base—a.k.a. making out, sucking face, not coming up for air for what seemed like hours—came about in the middle of my freshman year of high school.
My sister, Ariana, was a junior when I was a freshman. It should’ve been perfect, right? I’d get to tag along to all the cool high school parties, hang out with the older crowd, and meet the guys in her grade.
You’d think that, but you’d be wrong. Ariana wasn’t a partier. She wasn’t even really into boys. Whereas I wasboycrazy. So I’d been biding my time, wondering when I’d get to sow my wild high school oats, when Robert Weaver asked me to the winter formal. Not gonna lie, I totally squealed. I mean, Robert was not only one of the hottest guys in school—he was captain of the soccer team and every girl in school wanted to be seen with him. Including me.
After a night spent dancing, drinking punch, laughing, and having a great time, we ended up in his parents’ basement, watching a movie an hour before my curfew. And I’m using the term “watching” very loosely. By now we were both primed and ready for something more. Robert was a gentleman and I’d told him that I’d only been kissed once. So he went slow, asked permission to touch, and I was eager to give it. I have no idea how long we made out. I just know it washeavenly.Where I was a novice, he was an expert, and boy, did I want an education. Lips devoured, tongues tangled, hands roamed. Over the clothes only. As I said, Robert was a gentleman.
Just as I was about to have the courage to ask to seeit, Robert pulled back, panting, his cheeks flushed and his eyes darting back and forth between mine.
“Alyssa, I…” he said, sending butterflies soaring in my belly.
Perhaps I was about to be asked out, and I was thrilled at the idea of him becoming my first real boyfriend. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.
Instead, his expression went sour and he shook his head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
And then he ran toward the bathroom and proceeded to puke up all the Jell-O shots he and his friends had taken during the dance. My sister, God bless her, picked me up, and that was that. Robert barely looked at me when we returned from winter break, and though I hadn’t minded (after all, who hasn’t gotten sick after too many Jell-O shots?), he was apparently too embarrassed.
After Robert, I dated around, crafting my making-out game, but there wasn’t anyone who gave me that fire in my belly that told me to go further.
Until Ryan.
Third base: Ryan Masterson. The last name says it all, right? Wrong—at least for me.
During my junior year of college, I got a job at a bar not far from my apartment, wanting extra cash that didn’t have my parents’ stamp on it. Also, it was a way to meet people outside of those I went to school with. Ryan was the bass guitarist for an up-and-coming local band that regularly played gigs at the bar. He was sin on stage. The opposite of what I’d gone for in the past. He was only a few inches taller than I was and lean. He lived in black tank tops that fit his form, highlighting muscles hiding beneath his shirt, and the look was incredibly sexy. The swirling black ink on his arms, the pierced lip, and the darkest blue eyes I’d ever seen probably helped with the whole sex factor. I could’ve spent hours watching his forearms flex with each strum of his guitar strings. He had this thing where he’d bite his tongue if he were in deep concentration, and the sight? It made my lady bits tingle, probably for the first time in history.
At least for the first time I could remember. And boy, do I still remember.
Ryan Masterson’s penis was my first taste, and surprisingly, I couldn’t get enough. He didn’t mind my innocence, and he guided me, showing me what he liked, coaching until I got the hang of it. I felt a rush of pride when he laid his head back against the couch and bucked his hips up, thrusting his cock deeper until hot liquid spurted out onto my tongue in waves. Hell, I even swallowed.
Thanks,Cosmo.
Ryan then returned the favor, and I learned that he more than lived up to his name. My vagina practically sang as he licked, sucked, fingered, and caressed the place between my legs. He was my personal Magellan, leaving nothing unexplored, no place untouched. At this point, I was quite excellent with my fingers, but still, I hadn’t known that someone sucking on your clit could be life-changing. I kinda understood all of those rumors about Marilyn Manson removing a rib so he could orally pleasure himself. Because after Ryan’s mouth, my fingers would never be enough.
It was pretty freaking magical.
That is until his mom walked in on us.
