A memory surfaces as his lips trail down my neck, his fingers working at the button of my jeans. The prom dress. Ivory silk, strapless, with a fitted bodice that flared just enough at the hips. I remember walking out of the changing room, the mirror catching my reflection, and him standing there in the doorway, his tie loosened, his eyes wide. I thought he was crying because I was beautiful. I was wrong. He was crying because he wanted me. Not the girl in the dress. Me.
"I wanted you," he'd said that night, his voice rough against my ear. "I wanted you since the first day you looked at me like I was real. I just didn't know how to say it without ruining everything."
The confession sits heavy in my chest and I pull him closer, bare and shivering under his touch. He pushes my jeans the rest of the way off, slides my panties down my legs. Then he steps out of his shirt, his jeans, his boxers, kicking them aside. He’s already hard, already aching. I've seen him naked before, but never like this. Never like this, with the full weight of his cock resting against his thigh, thick and heavy, veined and promising. It’s bigger than I imagined and my mouth goes dry. He doesn't rush. He just watches me, his eyes dark, hungry, as if memorizing the way the light catches the curve of my hips, the rise and fall of my chest.
He guides me down onto the bed, laying me on my stomach. My cheek presses into the cool cotton, and he settles behind me, his weight a steady anchor. His palms are warm against my back, sliding down until they rest just above my waist. He presses a kiss to the base of my neck, then another, kissing down my spine like he’s reading a map he’s known for years. I’m on my side, knees bent, and he shifts behind me, his fingers finding the edge of my hips. He spreads my cheeks slowly, deliberately, and I feel the stretch, the unfamiliar pull, the exposure. Then his slick finger presses against my asshole. The first touch is cool, then warm, then impossibly real. I hold my breath. My muscles tense, instinct flaring, but beneath the fear there’s a quiet, desperate want that coils low in my belly. I press back just a fraction. His finger slides in, slow, and the room seems to hold still around us.