Page 108 of Backslide
He shuts that down. “I’m not going to stop.”
As proof, he reaches down and pulls my T-shirt over my head in one quick movement. Tosses it—like the baseball player he is—behind us and out of sight.
So, I do the same to him. Tit for tat.
I watch—and feel—his eyes rake down me, as I cock my head sideways and smirk up at him.
He bites his bottom lip.
In the plunge pool, I felt his body against mine, but the froth hid most of him from view. Now, he’s all laid out in front of me.
And it’s all fucking mine.
The scars from years of playing, roughhousing, skateboarding—the boy I knew. And the definition, smooth planes, and rough edges of now. I place my palm on the side of his sculpted neck with purpose now, watch him swallow hard as he tries to remain still, like he’s afraid he might frighten me away. Then I drag my hand slowly down the terrain of his chest, past his collarbone, pecs, the hard ridges of his abs—tracing the V that leads down.
He inhales a shuddered breath.
I slip my fingers into the very top of his sweatpants, and let them hang, teasing, from the elastic band. The tension between us—years in the making and intensified with every barb, glance, and not-so-accidental touch today—is now nuclear.
And we are about to blow.
What choice do we have but to save the world from our combustion?
Which is why Noah takes action. His darkened eyes still glued to mine, he grabs me roughly by the hips and backs me toward the wall, until I’m pinned against it. Then he leans down and, pausing just centimeters from my lips so I can feel his breath on my face, says, “Thank fucking God.”
And then he kisses me. And it’s not slow and patient; it’s urgent like the time isnow. Like we both needed this yesterday.
Like it might not happen again.
We crash together. His lips snag mine, his stubble delightfully rough against my face. His grip tightens around my hips, his large hands flexing, as I tip my chin up for him to go deeper. He tastes like that cider and toothpaste, smells like our rainy day by the sea.
And I am all in.
My hands are everywhere I can reach. In his hair, behind his neck, at his broad back. His skin is warm and hard as I pull him toward me, so that we’re flush against each other. So that I am a Noah-and-wall sandwich.
And that’s when he scrapes his hands down to my ass and lifts me up, propping me against the wall as he steps between my legs. And we’re grinding against each other—dry humpingas the kids used to call it—like it’s still those days. Like we’re still teenagers, impulsive, hungry, hormones coursing through us and blurring our choices.
And it’s like a release. Of expectations. Of demands. Of hangups.
I bite his lip. It’s my turn now. He pulls back slightly to look me in the face, his expression amused, like it’s a dare. Like this is a warning.
And then he dives back toward me, his tongue slipping into my mouth, as I feel him get so hard between my legs. I press myself into him.
I can’t get enough.
And it’s a time warp, back and forth. Now and then. Yesterday and today.
I think of all the times we were desperate for each other as teens, but there was nowhere private to go. Frustration, need. The closets we hid in amid rain jackets and dust. The cold porcelain of restroom walls. The dark house-party bedrooms with mountains of coats.
My breath is coming faster now, shallow and heated, as he presses into me, our twin sweatpants the only barrier. And I am no longer a solid. I am liquid mercury—shapeshifting and shiny.
I need more.
And he must have the same thought because suddenly he is carrying me, never breaking contact, then setting me down on the stairs. He kneels on the step in front of me and wraps his fingers around the elastic band of my bottoms just like I did to him, hesitates for a beat, messing with me.
Like this is the moment where there is no turning back.
But that train has already left the station.
