Page 104 of Scandal
I know a lot of people have him on posters in their rooms, album covers, and shirts with his face on them, but only I have the real version standing right in front of me.
Only I get to run my hands over his inked skin and feel these defined muscles flex beneath my fingers. Only I hear the deep groan he lets out as I skate my palm over his heavy erection through his boxer briefs.
“Mercury,” he pleads, his head lolling back in pained ecstasy. “Please.”
My heart pounds with excitement and perhaps a healthy dose of trepidation. I’ve never liked how society defines virginity. It’s heteronormative and misogynistic. But I can’t deny that this—what we’re about to do—feels important.
Not necessarily the physical aspect of it, because that part is only as meaningful as you make it. But the emotions we’re bringing into it?
That’s what makes it different. It’s the deep, penetrating stare he gives me when I finally shed him of his boxer briefs. And the reverent way his eyes slowly wander over every inch of my body, as if he’s trying to memorize it.
This isn’t just about sex. This isn’t just about scratching an itch or passing the time while we’re stuck together.
It’s so much more, and that terrifies me.
It’s going to make walking away so much harder.
For the first time, we’re both naked, and I realize I have no idea what to do next. Logically, I have a pretty good idea. But I don’t want to think right now. I just want to feel.
“I can see the wheels turning in your head,” he says with a soft smile. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” I answer right away, before following it up with a “Yes.”
“It’s okay,” he says, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me closer. A shiver races up my spine as his erection presses into my stomach. “I am too.”
My head jerks up, searching for any hint of amusement. There is none. “Really?”
He nods. “I’ve never been someone’s first. At least not that I’m aware of. It’s a lot to live up to. I want to make sure it’s memorable.”
I hate the way he says first, as if it doesn’t bother him in the least that there will be others after him.
That he won’t be the last—and neither will I.
I swallow and blink away those jealous thoughts. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I assure him. “Like you said weeks ago, you’re giving me memories, not lessons, and I’ll never forget a single one.”
“Then how about we make some more?” he says just before his mouth crashes into mine.
We fall onto the bed, the feel of his hot skin brushing against mine like a drug I never knew I needed. I widen my legs to make room for his large frame as his pepper kisses trail down my neck and collarbone.
“Fuck, I need to grab a condom,” he mutters, a moment before he rises from the bed. I almost tell him I’m on birth control, a precaution my mother drilled into Presley and me when we were still teens. But going without a condom is something you do with a partner you intend to stay with.
Not one you plan on leaving in a month.
“Okay.” I nod, focusing on his round ass rather than the sharp stab of pain I feel whenever I think of our time running out. He quickly rifles through his duffel and pulls out an unopened box of condoms.
“Optimistic?” I tease.
“Very.” He grins.
It’s kind of fascinating watching the way he rips the condom open and rolls it on. At this point, I’m just fascinated with anything to do with his dick, if I’m being honest.
“You’re blushing,” he says. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking many things.”
“Like?”
“Like, whether you’re ever going to tell me how you got that cupcake tattoo?”
