Who Do You Love(52)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

“Not real romantic,” said Andy. His eyebrows were drawn down, his big hands hanging by his side, and there was a faint frown on his face, and a tiny nick on his jawline where, I thought, he’d cut himself shaving. I wondered if he was nervous, too, embarrassed by his bedroom or his house or his neighborhood.

“It’s perfect,” I said. I was the one who took the two steps across the distance that separated us and pressed myself against him, feeling his chest, his strong legs, the heat of his body through his clothes. I put my arms around him and he bent down, holding the back of my head and kissing me, gently and carefully, like my mouth was a fruit he was trying for the first time.

He tasted like strawberries—from the ice cream we’d eaten, I thought—and he sighed when the tip of my tongue brushed against his, shivering and pulling me closer. “Is this okay?” he whispered.

“Okay,” I whispered back . . . and then, to prove it, I slipped one hand up the back of his shirt, gliding it over the smooth, warm flesh underneath, and I nibbled his earlobe, then the side of his neck. He sighed, pulling me closer, and it was as if the sound had gone straight to the slim span of flesh between my legs. I could feel myself swelling, becoming more tender, an insistent, tickling itch.

His hands fumbled with the clasp of my bra. “Here,” I said, and unhooked it. Then his shirt was off, and my shirt was off, and we were pressed together, my breasts, my scar, all bare in the dusty afternoon light.

“Hang on,” he said, and pulled away. I could see his erection, pressing against his jeans, and watched as he casually slid one hand down his pants to adjust himself. Boys, I thought, and felt an overwhelming tenderness toward him, affection at that unself-conscious gesture, at the way he could live in his own body and be completely at ease in a way that I didn’t think girls ever could.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a book of matches and lit one, and touched the flame to the plain white candle on his dresser. Painted metal blinds covered his window. He twisted a plastic rod, rolling them closed, and the room got darker, full of flickering shadows and candlelight.

He kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed, and then I tried to kick my boots off, except they were too tight and I ended up having to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling.

“Everything okay up there?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Just fine,” I said, pulling harder, finally working my feet free so that I could lie down beside him. I felt anticipation and a little fear, and a wish to slow down time, to notice everything, so I would be able to replay the whole scene perfectly in my head. Turning on his side, Andy slid one arm underneath me, pulling me close. But he didn’t kiss me, didn’t touch my breasts, even though my nipples were puckered and hard. With one finger, he traced the raised and knotted flesh of my scar, and when I shut my eyes, he whispered, “Look at me.” When I kept my eyes shut, he said my name—“Rachel.”

I made myself relax, made myself look into his eyes, and for the first time since I’d seen him on the train platform, I felt the ease of our Atlanta days returning. My Andy, I thought, leaning toward him just as he was lowering his face toward mine. Our noses collided.

“Ow!” I said as tears filled my eyes.

“Oh, jeez,” Andy muttered. “Are you okay?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” Was my nose too big? I worried that it was, sometimes. Then Andy was cupping my head in his hands.

“Maybe just hold still,” he said, and then he kissed me, slowly at first, then harder. He touched my scar, then my breast, a tentative brush, and I arched my back, pressing myself into his palm.

“Okay?” he asked again, and instead of answering I pulled him close, gripping his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin, the muscles beneath it, smelling him, feeling his mouth against mine.

We kissed and kissed, and then he bent his head to take my nipple in his mouth, circling it with his tongue. I felt the muscles in my thighs and belly clench, felt my hips lift toward him without knowing that they would. I wanted so badly for him to touch me between my legs, where I was slippery wet, as aroused as I’d ever been, and for the first time I felt an absence there, a new understanding that this was a part of my body that could be filled . . . and I wanted him there, wanted him inside of me so badly I thought that if I didn’t get it I wouldn’t be able to stand it.

Finally, I grabbed his hand and drew it down, inside my pants, outside of my panties, a black lacy pair I’d bought at Victoria’s Secret. Andy gave a harsh, almost pained gasp as he touched me, feeling the wetness that had soaked the cotton. “Wait,” he whispered. He yanked down my pants hard enough to let me feel how strong he was and how impatient, and I pulled my panties off myself. He pushed my legs apart, his big hands moving me easily. For a minute he just looked. I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d shaved all the hair that would have shown when I wore my swimsuits, but there was still a lot there, a few shades darker than my brown hair, coiled in tight curls, and I wondered what he thought, if I was supposed to look that way. He stroked the hair, tugging at one of the little curls the way he’d pulled the one on my head. Then he slipped one finger inside me, parting the outer lips, dipping into the wetness, caressing upward until he found the tiny little bump.