Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
He must’ve understood the gravity of the situation because he nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m ready, Row. Let’s do this.” I shoved my tongue into his mouth before he could use it to change his mind. I’d already made a colossal mistake by making out with him. Might as well lose my pesky virginity before I went off to college.
It was the right thing to do.
First of all, because according to the rumors, he knew his way around a woman’s body. Second, because his Adonis face was attached to some history, context, and nostalgia. He was comfort, familiarity, and ease, not some sordid mistake. And third, because I knew that despite his reputation, he wouldn’t hurt me.
And that last part? It was huge.
Row was my security blanket in many ways, even though he didn’t know it. When we were kids, he’d throw Dylan and me into the public pool as many times as we asked. He’d taught us how to do cartwheels, drive a car, cheat in poker, pick a lock. He’d given us money for vinyl records even though we never paid him back. Driven us places. Bought us ice cream when we were PMSing. Dislocated a nose or two when someone catcalled us.
Row made sense. I didn’t have cold sweats with him. I didn’t go into hiding. Whenever I had extreme, nervous verbal diarrhea in front of him, he didn’t look at me like I was a freak. And I was confident enough in his presence to sass back.
Our bodies fused into one another as he kissed his way down my throat, proceeding south, his head disappearing between my thighs.
“No,” I gasped, desperately trying to yank him up to his feet. “We don’t have time.” But the truth was, I was deathly afraid he wouldn’t like the taste of me. “Just…do it.” Great, now I sounded like a Nike commercial. “And hurry up.”
“You sure know how to set the mood.” Row stood up swiftly, returning his lips to mine, refusing to cheapen this experience for me. His strong fingers slowly snaked down my waist, flipping my skirt up. More grinding ensued. His cock slid up and down my slit through my panties and his jeans. I could feel heat rushing between my legs. He made sure I was hot and ready for him before he rolled on a condom, and then he was inside me, sealing my pained moan with an apologetic kiss. Tears seared my eyes, and I held my breath at the sharp sting.
“Okay to move?” he grunted, lodged squarely inside me.
“I strongly prefer that you didn’t.”
“We can—”
“Stop. I know. Please just fuck me.” Didn’t I literally tell him not to? My head was a mess. So was the rest of me.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know. That’s precisely why we should continue.”
He pulled out slowly, then thrusted inside. Soon, I was clawing at his shoulders, staring at the sun slithering behind his dark, messy hair as he drove into me, my white Mary Janes thumping against his car hood every time he pressed home. I held my breath the entire time.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
Steadfast and determined, he screwed me like I was a hood ornament he was trying to drill back into place. He was kissing and nibbling, exploring and admiring. Didn’t he know that on some level, all women lost their virginity alone? It was kissing your innocence goodbye. This was the point it stopped being great and started being taxing. I wasn’t so turned on anymore.
Truth was, it hurt. It burned. It sucked.
All throughout, Row whispered sweet nothings into my ear. Things I knew there was no way he truly believed. Things like, Jesus, Dot, I could live inside this tight pussy if you’d let me, and You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole fucking universe, no close seconds, and Watching my dick inside you is more breathtaking than Paris at night.
It lasted way more than the average time my friends reported their boyfriends had sexed them. I was expecting five minutes—ten, if I wasn’t lucky. But no. Row seemed to carry on forever. I was planning my 401(k) while he was in there, mercilessly stabbing my poor hymen with what appeared to be his eleven-inch dick.
He had tricks too. With his tongue, his thumbs, his teeth. Tricks I could’ve admired had my mind not been stuck on how to explain to Dylan what had happened if she ever found out, then groveling into the next century in hopes she’d forgive me.
Dylan was staying here, in Staindrop. She’d decided the student debt wasn’t worth a liberal arts degree that would gain her zero opportunities.
“And anyway,” she’d chuckled the last time I’d broached the subject, “it’s not like I’m even good at anything. I’d be wasting money on a degree I’d probably never use.”
We’d promised to visit one another every other month, but I knew Dylan was worried I’d ditch her for new, shiny urban friends.