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From Lost and Found, Chapter 4 (Nate’s point of view):
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Emi asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“No. Please stay.” She scooted back and lifted up the blankets, welcoming me into the bed next to her. This wasn’t the first time we had shared a bed together. There were a few times when boredom had led us to my bed, or hers, but we never did anything but nap together. And even then, we never touched, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide my attraction to her, and that would have been an incredibly awkward conversation. In fact, every time, I had to sleep with my back to her, and the sleep was usually pretty restless for me. I always woke up before her, and sometimes found myself taking care of matters in the bathroom before she got up. I was a teenage boy, after all.
After kicking off my shoes, I climbed into the bed and turned my back to her. Suddenly her hand was on my shoulder, nudging my back into the bed, and she was sidling up next to me.
“Aren’t you hot?” she asked as her hand ran up and down my chest over the wool sweater I had worn. Her eyes were still closed but a pretty smile spread across her lips.
“A little, yeah,” I breathed. She gripped the hem of the sweater– and of my undershirt– and pulled them both over my head. I helped to remove them the rest of the way and threw my shirts onto the floor. “You okay?”
“I’m hot, too,” she said, and before I knew it, she was unbuckling the overalls and removing both of her shirts, too.
“Emi,” I tried to caution her, but once the shirts were off, her lips were on mine, hard and fast. She tossed the overalls over my head, too. Fuck.
“Have sex with me,” she slurred.
“What?” I asked, trying to make sure I heard her right.
“Have sex with me, Nate. I’m ready. I want to.”
My brain was saying no. My hormones had another idea, and my foolish teenaged heart was all in. Still, I tried to fight. “It’s not a good idea.” Before I could even get the sentence out, she was taking off my pants. I managed to grab my wallet out of the pocket before she had them all the way off. I was relieved to find a few condoms in the side pouch.
“Please?” she asked. Her eyes opened slightly, and it looked like she was having a hard time focusing on me. It was wrong, so fucking wrong.
“Let’s slow down,” I told her, apparently convinced her. Her actions became less frantic, more restrained. I needed to get control of the situation, the only one in a position to do so. “Emi, you’re too drunk,” I reasoned, although it pained myself to do it.
“For what?” she asked. “To have sex? That can’t happen, can it?”
“It can,” I explained, “but that’s not what I meant. I think you’re too drunk to– ohhhh…” Her fingers brushed against me under the covers, over my boxers. Too drunk to make this decision, I wanted to say. I couldn’t, though, not with her touching me like that. My lips found hers immediately as her fingers explored my body beneath the sheets. It felt amazing, but it still didn’t feel right, and I made the conscious decision to keep my hands above her shoulders, cradling her head as we kissed.
“Why don’t I feel it?” she whispered as she took a breath. I looked at her curiously. She would have been looking at me the same had her eyes been open. I decided to help her out, took her hand in mine, moved them slowly under my boxers and pressed her fingers harder against me. There’s no way she can’t feel that.
That got her attention and her eyes blinked open in awareness. She gripped me tighter on her own and I let her hand go… let myself get caught up in that moment. “Can you feel it now?” I asked her. “Because it feels amazing to me.”
“I feel that,” she said, emphasizing her word a little too much as she squeezed. I moaned softly in her ear. “That’s not what I meant. I want to feel what I felt when you kissed me. I don’t feel it.”
“What do you mean?” I didn’t give her a chance to answer. I just continued to kiss her, hoping to evoke that elusive feeling again.
She pulled both of her hands up to my face and pushed me back gently. Her brow was crinkled in uncertainty. “Earlier tonight, it felt different. It was, like, everything,” she mumbled, running her fingers through my hair.
That wasn’t me.
©2011 Lori L. Otto