So he texts me around midnight, just I m here, and my stomach does this flip because I ve been thinking about him all day. I m already in bed, white sheets, small room, just my place with the window cracked open so I can hear the city outside. I throw on a tank top but no panties, already wet just knowing he s coming up.
He knocks soft, and when I open the door he smells like cigarettes and cold air. We don t even speak at first—he just pushes me back against the wall, his mouth on mine, his hands under my tank top, rough and urgent. I can feel how hard he is through his jeans and I laugh against his mouth because I m nervous, but he swallows the sound and keeps kissing me.
We make it to the bed somehow, and I m trying to undo his belt but my fingers are clumsy. He helps me, then pulls my tank top over my head so I m naked, exposed. He pauses for a second, looking at me, and I feel myself flush because the way he looks at me—like he s starving—I almost want to cover up.
