Page 65 of Problematic Summer Romance

“True. And since we knew each other so well…I dyed my hair the year I turned fourteen. What color?” His lost expression would be funny, if I weren’t busy arguing for my life. “Where did I go to school? What was my favorite book? What was my best friend’s name? Come on, Conor. Tell me something about me as a teenager, or I’ll have to think that you barely ever glanced at me. Which, incidentally, is exactly what happened.” I step closer. “This is not a crush that I never outgrew and you’re exploiting. There is no hero worship. This is, plain and simple, me meeting someone that I like, and wanting to—”

“Because you’re heartbroken and rebounding from the end of your first long-term relationship. I came to your aid when you needed someone, and now you feel grateful, and—”

“And what? What if I want to have sex with you because I feel grateful? What if I want to have sex with you because you have pretty eyes, because I like your mattress, because you’re rich?”

“Maya.”

I exhale, outraged. “If you are not interested in being with me, for any reason at all, then I’m going to drop this, no questions asked. No is a full sentence. But you’re not saying that. You are automatically assuming that being younger and poorer and recently dumped makes me unable to initiate consensual sex, and…This is infantilizing. If I can move abroad on my own, if I can vote, then I can also decide who I want to fuck.” There is a quiver to my lips. I don’t like the way it undermines my point, so I gather myself, and add, more calmly. “I understand that you’re worried about taking advantage, and I appreciate it. But I’d like for you to stop patronizing me and treat me like an adult.”

I’m pretty proud of how that last part came out—determined, fully fledged, uncompromising. Even more so when it becomes obvious that Conor has no half-decent response to that.

“Isn’t it what your father thinks, Conor?” I ask quietly. It’s the kill shot. “That every relationship has to be conceptualized in terms of power? That someone always has to dominate and take advantage?”

He is desperate, clenching his jaw, all his muscles tense. So out of options, he backtracks all the way to our axiom. “Maybe I just don’t want you,” he says through gritted teeth.

I smile. Poor guy. “Yeah? Maybe. Though you already admitted you do.”

“Maybe I fucking lied.”

I bite back an even wider grin. “I get it. You didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I bet you don’t really find me beautiful. Or smart.”

His eye twitches, like he’s dying to contradict me on that. It’s sweet. It makes me want him even more.

I step closer, drawn by his heat, crossing that last line. Crane up my neck. The hem of my shirt brushes against his sweats. The truth is that I find him ridiculously attractive in ways that have nothing to do with how handsome he is. Yes, I would love to have sex with him. That specific desire sparked inside me at some point during the day and has steadily grown harder to ignore, heavier at the bottom of my stomach. Right now, though, what I want is for him to hold me, and to hold him back.

Circling my arms against his waist feels so, so lovely. “Here,” I say, letting my forehead fall just below his collarbone. “Isn’t this nice?”

He grunts, but it’s a yes. His erection presses against my stomach, hard, immense.

“If you want me,” I say simply, “you should have me.”

He must agree, because I’m being spun around. The wall is suddenly behind me, pushed into my back, and a split second later Conor’s muscular thigh is slotting between mine. An unexpected pressure right there, between my legs.

I gasp.

“Is this what you want?” he murmurs—and yes. It is. Not all of it, but enough that I’m already losing track of my surroundings.

I try to arch up, to chase his mouth, but he’s too much taller and not helping at all. Doesn’t matter, though. His hands are exactly where they should be, on my hip and lower back, tilting me in the perfect position for the meat of his thigh to hit…

“Oh my god,” I moan.

He makes a clicking, soothing noise, but doesn’t stop. I reach up, nails scraping against his scalp, the short hair at his nape, as my hips move in search of more friction. My underwear is soaked. I wonder if he can feel the slick mess of it through the fabric of his sweats.

“It’s okay,” he reassures me, and apparently I needed that. There is nothing particularly romantic about this, nothing sophisticated or delicate about the way he grinds me over his body, but it feels like the most intimate experience I’ve ever had in my life.

So intimate, I cannot do this alone. I bend my neck back, desperate to meet his gaze. He’s above my shoulder, forehead against the wall, breathing ragged and quick. Our eyes lock, and I blush all over.

“Conor,” I start, and I want to say more. The underside of his cock pushes roughly against my hip bone, and I want to touch it. But before I can, pleasure bursts inside me and I come, stupefied by the aftershocks of my own body, the ungainly, quaking tremors that seize me. Having an orgasm in front of someone is always a vulnerable, baring experience. Conor watches me lose control, irises swallowed by his pupils, and it just makes the experience even more erotic.

“Fuck,” he hisses from above, lips pressed hotly against my temple. For a moment, his grip is a vise-tight, splitting, bruising cage. “Fuck.”

I breathe through the heat. Ground myself as I climb back down. Okay. So, maybe, I thought I knew what good orgasms felt like, and I’m now discovering that I was wrong. It’s fine. I can work on it.Wecan work on it.

A minute later, Conor lowers me on his bed. I’m worried that he might leave me here, alone, but he lies next to me. Gathers mein his arms. His eyes are full of something that’s too much like alarm. I hope that the flush on my cheekbones and the smile on my face will tip him off that I’m…pretty great, actually.

“Hi,” I say, squirming up to his body. I can feel his heartbeat under my hand, thumping through my skin. He wants me. It’s not just evident from the ridge in his pants. It comes off him in waves.

His hand cups my face, thumb caressing my lower lip back and forth. “You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, making me smile.

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