Page 32 of Most Likely to Match
I grin, reaching for his lap, but he stops me with a soft laugh. “Dear god, not here.”
The motion activated light clicks back on as we shut the car doors. Dean meets me at the hood of the car and takes my hand, leading me to the side of the house, past the darkened kitchen door, and along the flagstones to the below-grade walk-out basement. The pool lights are on, sending a bluish-green glow over the pool deck, the garden, and the grass. An impulsive part of me wants to run toward the water, stripping off my clothes as I go. Tease him into following me down to the deep end where no one can see what we do. But Dean tests the sliding door to his basement, and when it opens, he pulls me inside with him.
“My parents are leaving for Europe tomorrow,” he says. The only light comes from outside, but his basement rec room looks much the same as it did when I first knew him. Mismatched couches make a horseshoe shape in front of a flatscreen television— that’s new; it used to be an old box TV that he’d playSuper Mario Bros. on, a vintage game even then.
It was a space devoted entirely to Dean’s use, and it seems like that hasn’t changed even if Dean probably hasn’t used it much in over a decade.
“So they’re probably asleep.” He leaves me standing at the door to turn on a lamp on a side table, illuminating the wood-paneled walls I remember vividly. “But maybe we shouldwatch a movie,” he suggests, making air quotes. “Just in case someone comes downstairs.”
Slowly, I approach him. He flops onto the couch in the center of the horseshoe, shoving his hands into the cushions until he comes up with the remote control. The television illuminates his face with a silvery blue glow as he starts flipping through channels.
“You want to…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Fool around on your couch?” I ask. “While your parents are asleep upstairs?”
He shrugs, his eyes still on the screen but a smirk dimpling his cheek. “I could sneak you upstairs, but I remember you being a little loud.”
I scoff, hike up my skirt, and straddle him. Dean’s smile widens, and if I’ve played into whatever plan he had to get me into this spot, good.
“I am not the loud one,” I say, pushing his head against the back of the couch to grant me full and unfettered access to his neck. Whatever movie he’s landed on is good enough. He drops the remote, his hands holding my hips, cupping my waist. His thumbs travel up to press on my nipples, a tease meant to frustrate more than arouse. I lean over him, my hair tickling his chest. I taste his throat, first with my open mouth, then my tongue. His hands grip my sides tighter.
He moans. Loud.
“See?” I whisper into, then nip at his ear.
He kisses me, a slow, lingering kiss that builds into something deeper. His tongue filling my mouth as much as his moans do. “What do you want?” I pant, pulling away. “My mouth or…”
He bites his lip, shakes his head.
“Do you have a condom upstairs?” I ask. Because that would be nice, too. To finally feel him again. To see if he’s how I remembered, but also to finally know what’s different.
I knew almost immediately upon meeting him that I liked him. He was a patient tutor but also sweet. Compassionate in a way mostteenage boys weren’t, probably still aren’t. And pretty. He’s always been so fucking pretty. His long and abundant lashes. The smiles he’d try to hide behind the hair he grew long.
We never really discussed the social deficit between us. Mostly because I didn’t know how to and because I foolishly thought it didn’t matter. The first time we hooked up, I made the first move; and the second, the third. Every time I did, there was this moment of surprise. He’d pause, lick his lips, bite the inside of his cheek. He’dthink. I wonder now if he was asking himself if he really wanted to do this.
If it, ifI, was worth the risk.
The first time we had sex was because I had given him the condom. One of the Laurens’ moms had given her a bunch from the sexual health clinic where she was a nurse, and she’d passed them out like candy bracelets one day in the middle of lunch period. The rubber had burned a hole in the inner pocket of my bag until two days later when Dean and I were finally alone at my house for “tutoring.”
“I want you to fuck me,” I’d said, putting the single condom in his open palm. And he did, after a moment, a surprised pause of thoughtful contemplation. Compared to most of the sexual encounters I’ve had since, it wasn’t great, but it was also perfect. Especially because we got to do it again and again and again and got better and better and better.
If I had a condom now, I’d do the same thing. I’d put it in his hand and ask him to fuck me, for the symmetry of the moment but also because all the best parts of Dean— his tenderness, his compassion— are still with him. And selfishly, I want to know all the ways he’s stayed the same and all the ways he’s changed.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says now. “We don’t need one for this.”
I arch an eyebrow, skeptical, but let him move me how he wants, until we’re lying with my back to his front along his couch, an action movie playing mutedly on screen, a blanket over our bodies “just in case.”
He pulls up my skirt until the worn fleece of the blanket warmsme all the way up to my hip. He palms the globe of my ass in one hand, awkwardly, and slides his hand over my thigh into the short, coarse hair that’s grown since my last waxing. In the car, it wasn’t a concern, only chasing pleasure was. But now I’m a bit embarrassed about it. As if Dean didn’t happily go down on me before I knew the full scale of what a Brazilian wax entailed.
I roll toward the throw cushion shared beneath our heads to hide my face. He rests his chin gently in the exposed gap between my shoulder and ear. “You think I care?” His voice is light; dare I say, happy. “Grow it longer, baby.” He scratches gently through the hair and the soft mound of skin beneath. “I’ll spend even longer there.”
I twist, capturing the edge of his mouth. We kiss, barely even lips touching, his middle finger petting my clit lazily. “This is supposed to be for you,” I whisper.
He slides his hand down, his finger into me. I gasp. “It is.”
Dean fingers me slowly, like a musician tuning an instrument rather than playing. He experiments; how many fingers can I take, and what does it feel like with my leg here. Sometimes, he presents his fingers for me to taste or asks if he should taste them. He rewards me with kisses to my temple whenever I give him the right answer— and all my answers seem to be the right answers.
We are hot under the blanket. Sweaty, sticking together. His pants open, his cock a persistent press against my ass. Sometimes I grind on it until he’s moving our hips together. Sometimes he stops me, like he doesn’t want to be distracted.
The action movie ends, a whole half hour of infomercials, too. The TV is nothing more than a source of light at this point, rather than a form of entertainment. UntilRed Heel Storiescomes on.
