I told myself I was going to bed. I even pulled the covers up and turned off my lamp. But my body didn't care.
I couldn't stop thinking about him.
Sometime after midnight, I got tired of touching myself and walked to his house.
The lights inside were off, except for the one in the kitchen, which he always left on when his parents were gone. It was our signal. We never called beforehand or knocked on doors.
I slipped discreetly across the lawn, watching while the house glowed warm in the dark.
I couldn't see his truck in the driveway, but I knew he was home. I could feel it in the charge in the air, in the way blood rushed down to my fingertips. He was lying in bed or watching TV, waiting for me.
I stepped onto the back porch and tried the door.
Locked.
I frowned. He usually left it open. I knocked.
Nothing.
I started knocking louder. The sharp raps echoed against the siding.
My stomach twisted.
I stared at the window beside the porch, half-expecting a curtain to twitch. My palms had gone damp, and the thought of walking back across the lawn clawed at me.
But before I could go, the door jerked open.
Charles Connors stood in the doorway. His brown hair was mussed. His sweatpants hung loose on his hips, leaving little to the imagination, and the fact that he wore no shirt didn't help. He looked tired and beautiful.
"T," he breathed. He looked back inside his house, then at me again. "Shit."
I blinked. "Hey."
His voice fell to a whisper. "My parents are here."
My stomach dropped. "Oh."
"My mom must've left the kitchen light on before bed. Sorry."
I swallowed. I wondered if he wanted me to leave. I almost did, on my own. But then he looked at me, and his face softened.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. I just…" My voice faded before I could finish.
"Anything on your mind?"
"I just didn't want to be alone tonight," I admitted.
He ran a hand through his hair and opened the door wider. "Alright, come in."
He closed the door behind us quietly, so quietly that I knew everyone in the house must be sleeping.
The floorboard creaked as soon as I crossed the threshold. I winced at the sound, but Charles's hand, laced in mine, guided me forward.
The television hummed from the living room, canned voices drifting from whatever late-night program was on. His dad sat on the couch, the blue light streaked over his features. I nearly yanked Charles back when I saw him, but then I noticed. Pastor Connors's eyes were shut. He was sleeping.
Charles gave my hand a quick tug, pulling me past the living room.
When his bedroom door clicked shut behind us, we just stared at each other, silent and breathless for a second. The hum of laughter from the television carried down the hall.
Then we both broke—quiet, guilty giggles muffled into each other's shoulders.
"God, we're insane," I whispered.
He grinned, eyes glistening in the dark, then pressed a finger to his lips.
For some reason, that made me laugh harder. I slapped a hand over my mouth. He grabbed me, pulled me onto the bed, and we collapsed in a mess of hushed laughter and tangled limbs.
I shoved at him, but not really. He caught my wrist, held it against the mattress, and kissed the inside of my palm. I hated how much I liked it. I was pulling him closer before my brain could catch up.
By the time his hand slid under my nightgown, the laughter had already dwindled into silence.
My nightgown had slipped off one shoulder, fabric soft and rumpled from his hands. He slowly pulled it lower until it rested at my waist, and my breasts were exposed. He cupped them in his hands, brushing his thumb across the peaks, back and forth, back and forth until my nipples stiffened.
The blinds were shut, but strips of light from the porch still fell across the sheets like prison bars.
His room smelled like soap and salt and something mechanical, the kind of smell that clung to his fingers after the garage, no matter how hard he scrubbed. I couldn't name it, but knew it too well. I wanted it on me. In me. I wanted to breathe it in until I stopped thinking.
We kissed like we didn't have to be careful. The silence of the house pressed around us. My body throbbed with want, but my chest stayed tight with the fear of being caught.
He slid down the bed, spreading my thighs with a grip that felt more like a command than a request. His mouth hovered over the thin cotton stretched between my legs.
And then—his tongue pressed right through it.
I jolted like I'd been shocked, hips lifting clean off the mattress. The fabric was already damp, humiliating proof of what he was doing to me. Every drag of his tongue soaked through the cotton until my thighs trembled. I couldn't swallow the sounds escaping me.
"Charles," I hissed. My body didn't listen. My hips pushed against his mouth, greedy for more, even as shame curled sharply in my chest.
He looked up from between my thighs, eyes dark, mouth pressed to the soaked cotton, smirking like he could read every frantic thought I didn't say. His teeth caught the edge of my panties and pulled them down.
By the time he crawled back over me, I was shaking. He shoved his sweats low, lined himself up, and pushed his cock inside me with one long thrust. The stretch tore a cry out of me, muffled instantly by his hand clamping over my mouth. His other hand gripped my hip, pinning me like he didn't trust me to stay still.
Then he started to move.
Every shift of the mattress felt like it would echo down the hall. His forearms were taut with restraint. I could feel the way he tried to hold back, and the way he couldn't.
"Faster," I breathed. "Please."
The sound of skin on skin filled the room, obscene in the silence. His name slipped from me in broken gasps. I bit my wrist, desperate to stay quiet.
He looked down at me, sweat dripping from his temples, eyes glazed. Every thrust met by my own, the rhythm between us blurring into want and ache and breath and skin. My nails pressed little half moons onto his back. Pressure built between my legs, slow and dizzying, the risk of being caught starting to feel exactly like coming.
He was close. I felt it in his faltering rhythm, in the grip of his hands on my hips like he might pull away.
"Don't," I begged. "Please, Charles. I want it."
His breath hitched. He kissed me hard.
And he didn't stop.
His pace broke apart as he buried himself deep with a sharp gasp.
Sudden warmth spread through me in waves. My body clenched around him instinctively, startled by the newness of it all, yet part of me wanted to keep him there, to hold the closeness for as long as I could.
I started moving against him, slow and greedy, wringing out every last flicker of sensation until his whole body locked above mine, muscles pulled tight like a bowstring.
His hands tangled in my hair. His breath came rough as he collapsed onto me.
"Jesus," he hissed, mouth over mine.
He kissed my shoulder, ragged, like he couldn't stop.
The house stayed silent.
I was still shaking.
And he was still inside me.
I didn't know how long we lay there. Skin sticky, mouths brushing between soft kisses. His hand stayed in my hair. Mine still rested on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.
"That was a little crazy," I whispered.
He smiled against my jaw and kissed me again. His breath, my breath, the sheets tangled around our legs—I couldn't tell what belonged to whom.
My heart felt like a bubble in my chest, thin and pink and full of something too big to name. I thought it might burst. I almost wanted it to.
I pulled away from him at the sound of something outside the door.
Neither of us moved.
We listened.
I turned toward the door, my heart shooting straight to my throat. His body tensed against mine, his grip tightening in my hair, his breathing becoming labored.
But nothing else came.
The air emptied from my lungs. As if the sound had gutted the whole room. The heat in my skin hadn't even cooled yet.
But the silence gave way to something else: the weight of what he left inside me. That I was his in a way that could break me, and he was mine in a way that already had.
I turned my head to look at him.
But he was already looking at me.
And God, he looked wrecked. His hair stuck to his forehead, his lips still kiss-swollen, his eyes soft in that way he didn't let anyone else see. Like I was the only thing in the world that could hurt him, and he'd let me.
"You good?" he whispered.
I nodded, but didn't speak.
"Good. You scare the shit out of me sometimes," he said.
"Charles—"
"I don't mean in a bad way. I mean, I want you so bad I don't know where to put it all sometimes."
He reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear, thumb brushing the edge of my cheek. His touch felt like a secret. Like it meant something no one else would understand.
"Worried?" he asked.
I answered by leaning into him, my heartbeat a hummingbird in my chest.
"I'd do anything for you," he said, softly. "You know that, right?"
I blinked.
"Not because you ask. Just because I want to."
My chest tightened.
"I love you, Teresia. You have no clue."
"I love you too."
He didn't push.
He didn't ask for more.
He just pulled me back into him, one arm snug around my waist, and kissed my forehead like we had all the time in the world.