swelling curves of my breasts. I know they’re spilling out the sides and over the neckline.
And worse – in the night the whole thing has twisted and ruffled up. He can see my stomach – a pale curve in the gloom – and probably a bit too much of my right hip. I’m sort of half on my side and half on my back, so the winding shape of my body is pretty easy to make out. It’s made even easier by how far my little sleep-shorts have slid down.
I must be a horrifying sight.
It’s just that he doesn’t look as though I’m a horrifying sight. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost, if ghosts were known for being really arousing. And I know that arousing is the right word too, because while I’m still in this stupor I grope him with my own eyes in return, and I see a lot of things I don’t know how to process.
He’s breathing very hard, for a start. And his face is like mine – his cheeks are bright with a kind of fever. They almost make me want to jump up and get us both a cold compress and some Calpol, followed by some vigorous lying down, maybe.
Though I suspect childhood cures for mild illness won’t cure a massive erection.
Because he has that too. He’s just kind of stood there, over my bed, with a massive erection. He doesn’t even try to hide it, the way I probably would if I were in his position. I feel like I should hide something now, even though it’s impossible to see what I’ve got. Ladyboners aren’t a real thing, I tell myself frantically.
And then I’m calm.
Or at least as calm as I can be, with a gigantic ladyboner.
‘Steven,’ I start to say, but then it’s like before. It’s like before when he did – that . I’m almost afraid to form complete sentences, in case it breaks this strange spell. This is what it must be like to be attracted to someone, and feel they’re attracted back, I think, but that seems so crazy I don’t want to disturb it.
He’s not attracted to me, I know it.
He’s just touching my bare hip with the tips of his fingers because I had a smudge there. He wanted to rub it off, and in all honesty he’s doing a great job of it. After a while, he puts his whole hand into the effort.
While I forget to breathe, briefly.
I have to forget to breathe, briefly. Firstly because I’m kind of terrified, but also because I’m sort of afraid that if I do take in oxygen, I’ll somehow disturb the insane trance he appears to have fallen into. And though I am many things: nervous nelly, complete weirdo, owner of a self-esteem so low it could pass for a potted plant, I’m not so foolish that I can tell myself I don’t want this.
In fact, I’m currently telling myself the opposite. I really want this to go further, and apparently I want it so much that I’m willing to reach up and grab his T-shirt – you know, just in case he decides to run away again, before I get what I’m after. Basically, if this is going to be my only chance at fucking Steven Stark, if tomorrow he’s going to be ashamed and embarrassed, then quite frankly I’m going to make the most of it.
Thankfully, he seems to like this idea.
He seems to like this idea a lot .
The second I get a fistful of that T-shirt, he does something I’ve only previously never imagined happening in any of my daydreams about him – mainly because it seemed so unbelievable it wasn’t actually worth picturing in my head.
So it’s a thrill to have it actually occur. It makes my insides leap 50 feet in the air, just to feel those soft, soft lips pressing gently against mine. Then pressing harder against mine. And then oh God then he parts them, a little bit, and everything is so slippery and warm and full of this desperate kind of fever.
He kisses me like this is the last time he’s ever going to kiss me. He kisses me like he’s been starving in the desert, and I’m a drink of ice cold water – complete with these breathless sort of groans that make all my hair stand on end. I must look like Billy
And worse – in the night the whole thing has twisted and ruffled up. He can see my stomach – a pale curve in the gloom – and probably a bit too much of my right hip. I’m sort of half on my side and half on my back, so the winding shape of my body is pretty easy to make out. It’s made even easier by how far my little sleep-shorts have slid down.
I must be a horrifying sight.
It’s just that he doesn’t look as though I’m a horrifying sight. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost, if ghosts were known for being really arousing. And I know that arousing is the right word too, because while I’m still in this stupor I grope him with my own eyes in return, and I see a lot of things I don’t know how to process.
He’s breathing very hard, for a start. And his face is like mine – his cheeks are bright with a kind of fever. They almost make me want to jump up and get us both a cold compress and some Calpol, followed by some vigorous lying down, maybe.
Though I suspect childhood cures for mild illness won’t cure a massive erection.
Because he has that too. He’s just kind of stood there, over my bed, with a massive erection. He doesn’t even try to hide it, the way I probably would if I were in his position. I feel like I should hide something now, even though it’s impossible to see what I’ve got. Ladyboners aren’t a real thing, I tell myself frantically.
And then I’m calm.
Or at least as calm as I can be, with a gigantic ladyboner.
‘Steven,’ I start to say, but then it’s like before. It’s like before when he did – that . I’m almost afraid to form complete sentences, in case it breaks this strange spell. This is what it must be like to be attracted to someone, and feel they’re attracted back, I think, but that seems so crazy I don’t want to disturb it.
He’s not attracted to me, I know it.
He’s just touching my bare hip with the tips of his fingers because I had a smudge there. He wanted to rub it off, and in all honesty he’s doing a great job of it. After a while, he puts his whole hand into the effort.
While I forget to breathe, briefly.
I have to forget to breathe, briefly. Firstly because I’m kind of terrified, but also because I’m sort of afraid that if I do take in oxygen, I’ll somehow disturb the insane trance he appears to have fallen into. And though I am many things: nervous nelly, complete weirdo, owner of a self-esteem so low it could pass for a potted plant, I’m not so foolish that I can tell myself I don’t want this.
In fact, I’m currently telling myself the opposite. I really want this to go further, and apparently I want it so much that I’m willing to reach up and grab his T-shirt – you know, just in case he decides to run away again, before I get what I’m after. Basically, if this is going to be my only chance at fucking Steven Stark, if tomorrow he’s going to be ashamed and embarrassed, then quite frankly I’m going to make the most of it.
Thankfully, he seems to like this idea.
He seems to like this idea a lot .
The second I get a fistful of that T-shirt, he does something I’ve only previously never imagined happening in any of my daydreams about him – mainly because it seemed so unbelievable it wasn’t actually worth picturing in my head.
So it’s a thrill to have it actually occur. It makes my insides leap 50 feet in the air, just to feel those soft, soft lips pressing gently against mine. Then pressing harder against mine. And then oh God then he parts them, a little bit, and everything is so slippery and warm and full of this desperate kind of fever.
He kisses me like this is the last time he’s ever going to kiss me. He kisses me like he’s been starving in the desert, and I’m a drink of ice cold water – complete with these breathless sort of groans that make all my hair stand on end. I must look like Billy
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