Page 73 of Talk Nerdy To Me
He studies me like he’s waiting for me to answer, and preparing to argue in case I tell him no.
I answer, “Yes,” before I can stop myself. It’ll save us the argument where he’ll easily talk me into it.
“Good,” he tells me with a grin.
“I can reschedule karaoke for next week,” I go on, clearing my throat as I actively try not to arch up into him. “Rain will be okay with that.”
“Only if that’s what you want. It’s not a big deal to hit karaoke first.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him on a shakier tone, since it’s getting harder and harder not to focus on the very intimate pressure he’s putting on my vagina.
A dull ache has started to grow more and more noticeable.
In my vagina.
Also, to take my mind off said pressure, before I do something to embarrass myself again, I’m idly recalling an article on erotic writing that Rain was reading over. It said it made readers cringe when they read the word vagina. There were a number of options listed under the clinical word.
“Is pussy, snatch, love-cave, lady parts, or cunt more or less acceptable than the use of vagina in your opinion?”
At his raised eyebrows and seemingly confused expression, I add, “Which word or wording do you personally prefer? Because Rain assures me there is not a universally agreed upon word for the most talked about piece of female anatomy.”
He scrubs a hand over his mouth, and it looks as though he’s attempting to stifle a grin.
“I won’t even ask how your mind got from our conversation to there in less than three seconds,” he tells me before he pushes off me.
A cold wash floods over my body in the absence of his heat that my body had gotten too accustomed to. His eyes dip down to my chest, and holds there.
Since I was also instructed by the girls not to wear a bra—as long as I wanted him—my very painfully hard nipples are on display, pressing against the fabric.
His eyes settle on mine again, and without warning, he comes down on top of me, his lips finding mine. I can’t believe the no-bra thing actually worked!
The metal of that hoop barely tinks against my teeth, before he slants his head and starts kissing me from a different angle, kissing me deeper, as his hips grind against me.
“You’re like a fucking drug,” he murmurs against my lips, his hand sliding up my side. “And I’m really not a motherfucking saint,” he adds, as his lips start dragging down my neck.
My breath hitches, and my eyes open as I try to force my body to show no signs of resistance. My shirt starts to slide up, his fingers dragging across my skin as it makes the fabric climb over my ribs.
Just as his fingers brush the underside of my breast, I shiver and tense at the same time. His hands still, and I mentally chastise every stupid bodily reaction I have to him.
I feel his smile against my neck as he presses a kiss there, leaving his fingers just under the bottom swell of my breast, teasing me with a touch I barely got and that he now keeps out of reach.
“How many bases have you…touched?” he asks, confusing me.
“Just you.”
His entire body stiffens. Then, as if I just told a joke of hilarious proportions, laughter erupts from him. He has to turn his head away as his body shakes with the violent force of it.
I’m not even sure what is so funny, and still I’m tempted to laugh just because of how infectious the sound is.
He groans, shaking his head as though he’s trying to stop laughing. “Fucking hell, Britt,” he says like he’s amused, still laughing lightly as his eyes come back to mine, a smile lingering on his lips. “I was asking how far you’ve been with a guy, and bases are—”
“Oh,” I say, suddenly getting it as my eyes widen. “Oh. I actually don’t know the bases. I know of their intended purpose, but I’ve heard numerous versions of what second and third base really are. First and home were fairly simple, until someone referred to what I thought of as home as a ‘homerun,’ which is an entirely different—”
He shuts me up when his lips come down on mine, kissing my thoughts silent, making me once again forget what I was even saying. He’s the only one to ever be able to kiss me stupid.
Another term I’ve come to finally appreciate after years of wondering how a kiss could render one stupid.
My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer. But he pulls back just when I convince myself to be a little aggressive.
