Page 34 of Past Present Future

Except in this version, our dorms have massive hotel room beds with giant headboards and the softest, fluffiest sheets you can imagine.

I stare down at the words, cringing. “Fluffiest” is not the sexiest word I could have picked.

But it doesn’t seem to faze her.

Rowan: amazing. so much space to spread out

Neil: But I don’t want to spread out. I don’t want any space between our bodies. I want to be beside you. On top of you. Beneath you. Wherever you want me.

Rowan: everywhere. I want to feel you everywhere

Rowan: you’re really good at this, btw

Neil: Would you expect anything less?

Neil: The real question is, who’s better?

Rowan: I think we can both win this time

Rowan: but I also think you’re about to be very grateful for all the romance novels I’ve read

Neil: Already am.

Rowan: let’s get back to that bed. I’m on top, pinning you down, slowly taking off my clothes. it’s agony, because you want me naked, but I think it’s more fun to make you wait.

Neil: It’s torture. That’s what it is. Every moment my hands aren’t on your skin: absolute torture.

Rowan: but we have so much time. we want to make the most of it.

Rowan: once we’ve both undressed, all I do is kiss you. your mouth. your neck. your shoulders. down your chest. all my favorite freckles.

Neil: You have favorite freckles?

Rowan: yes. it’s a 7,000-way tie.

Rowan: finally… I wrap my hand around you and it’s such a rush of relief, at least at first. but then you need more.

I’m still going slowly. up and down. a little harder. a little faster. I love the way you feel, the way your eyes flutter shut as you grip the back of my neck, your hand fisting into my hair. all you can do is say my name, and then nothing at all.

then I let go.

but only so I can bend down and give you my mouth.

Fucking. Hell. My hand moves quicker, imagining her doing exactly that. The curves of her body, and how every single time I touch her, she somehow feels better than the time before. Her sweetness. The softest skin of her thighs. The way she tasted—Jesus, the way she tasted.

The way she might be touching herself right now, eyes closed and cheeks flushed, a mental picture that nearly makes me short-circuit.

Neil: And I’d like all of that. So much.

Neil: But not nearly as much as I’ll like trailing my hand up your thigh, waiting for that intake of breath that tells me how badly you want me to touch you. It’s the sexiest sound in the world.

Her next message is only two words.

Two perfect, fatal words.

Rowan: so wet

I almost lose it just at the sight of those words on the screen, a gnash of my teeth before I tighten my fist, forcing myself to slow down. They might as well be spelled out in neon on the ceiling for the way they send off alarms in the part of my brain that governs sexual activity. We learned about it in psychology, only I can’t remember it now. Doesn’t matter.

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