More than Friends - Monica Murphy (18 page)

Inept.

“I’d rather just get into bed with you and hang out.” I must look totally freaked out, so he feels the need to clarify. “I just want to relax, Amanda. I’m beat after tonight’s game. Figured we could talk or whatever.”

It’s the
or whatever
that has me curious. But at least he didn’t suggest the theater room. “That’s fine,” I say with a shrug, like I’m cool. Like I’ve done this a million times.

“Mandy.” His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. “We’ve done this before. A few times. Remember?”

He’s right. We really have done this sort of thing before. It’s just that tonight, it feels like there are all of these expectations riding on me. Though I’m just putting unnecessary pressure on myself, which is dumb.

I watch as he goes to his bed and pulls the comforter and sheets back, then plumps up the pillows. We may have cuddled together on a bed before, but never under the covers. That somehow feels more intimate.

“Come here.” He pats the empty spot, then looks up at me.

I go to him, take his offered hand, and let him pull me down so I’m sitting in his lap. “You look scared,” he whispers, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my skin.

“This feels different with you tonight.” I rest my head in that spot between his neck and shoulder. I breathe in his scent and close my eyes, savoring the quiet, the stillness, his steady breathing the only sound.

“I don’t want you scared of me.”

“I was more scared you’d suggest we go watch a movie in that fancy theater of yours,” I admit, feeling bolder now that I’m not looking directly in his eyes.

He sighs. “The number of blowjobs I’ve received in that theater room is vastly exaggerated.”

I sit straight up, startled he’d even mention it. “But it
is
true. That you get—serviced in the theater room?”

Jordan looks away, and has the decency to appear faintly embarrassed. “I can’t lie and say I’ve been a saint, Mandy. I’ve done stuff with a few girls. But not as many as the rumors say I have. My actual number is surprisingly low.”

He wouldn’t lie to me, would he? Or is he trying to save my delicate feelings? “I really don’t want to talk actual numbers.”

“We don’t have to. None of those other girls matter anyway.” He gathers me in his arms and stands, making me squeal and cling to him. Gently he sets me down on the bed, then climbs in beside me, pulling the sheet and comforter up so we’re facing each other, covered to our chins.

I start to giggle. I can’t help it. He looks so cute with the covers pulled up, his hair still damp, his eyes sleepy and that tiny smile curving his lips.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.” I slap my hand over my mouth to contain the giggles. I’m tired too. “You look cute.”

“Cute?” He yawns, quickly covers his mouth. “Really?”

“Really.” I reach for his wrist and slowly move his hand away from his face. “You’re adorable.”

Jordan grimaces. “You make me sound like a baby.”

“You are definitely not a baby.” I shift closer, my hand skimming his stomach before I wrap my arm around his waist. “You have too many muscles.”

He pulls me in until our legs are tangled and my head is resting on his chest. “You’re wearing too much clothing,” he murmurs against my hair.

I go still. “What do you want me to do? Strip?”

Next thing I know I’m flat on my back and he’s hovering above me, his hand at the front of my jeans, his fingers toying with the button. “I could take these off for you.”

“I don’t know…” Nerves make my stomach clench and I tell myself he’ll only take it as far as I’ll let him. And it isn’t very comfortable, lying in bed with him wearing my jeans.

“Only if you want,” he whispers against my lips just before he kisses me. “I don’t want to make you nervous.”

He touches my stomach, brushes his knuckles across my skin, and I suck in a soft breath, closing my eyes. It feels so good. His hand pauses over the front of my jeans again and I open my eyes to find him watching me carefully. I give a little nod, my silent permission for him to continue, and he undoes the snap. Slowly pulls down the zipper, his fingers spreading open the denim and exposing my panties.

“I want to see you,” he whispers, and I close my eyes again, turning my head so I can bury my face into the pillow. “Come on, Mandy. Don’t be shy.”

I shift so I’m facing him once more and thrust out my arm, pushing the covers off the both of us. He immediately looks down, his gaze locked on my spread open jeans and the front of my gray-and-burgundy striped panties. He almost reverently traces the waistband of my underwear, his fingers barely touching my skin, and I hold my breath, waiting for his fingers to dive beneath the thin fabric.

But he doesn’t do that. Instead he grabs hold of my jeans and starts to tug them down, pulling them to about mid-thigh before I take over and shimmy them down my legs, kicking them off and onto the floor. He shoves the covers back even farther, until they’re bunched behind me and we’re both completely exposed.

“You have the longest legs.” He caresses the outside of my thigh.

“I hated them when I was twelve. I looked ridiculous.” I was taller than most of the boys in seventh grade, even Tuttle, until about midway through. He shot up, way past me, but his height did me no favors. I was still one of the tallest people in class, and my long legs just made me look gawky and weird.

“You were cute.” He smiles. “Adorable.”

“Stop.” I shove at his bare chest, letting my fingers explore all of that exposed skin. His shoulders and pecs, the spot in between them where the faintest bit of dark hair grows. His ridged stomach and the mysterious trail of dark hair that leads from the bottom of his navel and into his sweatpants. I still want to follow that trail with my tongue.

I don’t know if I’ll ever have the nerve to do it.

“You should take off your pants,” I suggest, and he shakes his head, the smirk on his face warning me he’s going to say something wicked.

“Take off your shirt and then I’ll take off my pants,” he murmurs.

Before I lose my nerve I sit up and whip off my shirt, then grab the covers and pull them over me. My least favorite body part is my boobs. I’m flat chested. I mostly wear a padded B cup when really I’m more of an A cup, though tonight’s bra choice is new and chosen just for Jordan. Unfortunately, I just…never got boobs. My mom isn’t gifted in the chest department either, so I was doomed.

And boys like Tuttle like boobs. The bigger the better. He may approve of my long legs, but he’ll be disappointed in my chest.

“Why you gotta go and cover yourself up?” He reaches for the comforter but I clutch it tighter, keeping it close. “Let me see.”

I shake my head. “No way.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t want to see the disappointment on your face.” When he frowns, I explain, “My boobs are really, really small.”

“I don’t care, Amanda. I don’t like you for your boobs.” He grins, and the sight of that smile steals my breath. All my brain cells too. “I like you for your legs.”

I nudge his shin with my foot. “Jerk.”

“Come on.” His smile fades and his expression turns sincere. “Let me look at you.”

“Fine.” I let him tug the comforter away from me and I close my eyes. I can feel his gaze on me, drinking me in, and he’s so quiet for so long I start to freak out. “Is it so bad that you’ll never be able to speak again?”

He chuckles. And when he touches my chest, his fingers tracing the edge of my burgundy lace bra, I nearly jump out of my skin. “You’re beautiful.”

The words I’ve longed to hear. I open my eyes and then he’s there, kissing me, devouring me. His hands are on my breasts, his thumbs brushing back and forth across the lace and driving me crazy. I pull him in closer and pour all of my feelings for him into that one kiss. I need him to know how much I like him. How much I’ve been holding back.

“Your skin is so soft.” His fingers fumble over the front clasp of my sheer lace bra—well, they call it a bralette because there’s nothing to it—and then it springs open. He pulls away so he can look down at my chest, carefully pushing away the thin lace so he can really see me.

I sling my arm over my eyes so I can’t see his reaction.

“So pretty,” he murmurs as he touches me. “God, Amanda, I’ve dreamed of this.”

“You have?” I drop my arm away from my eyes so I can look at him.

He nods, but he’s too busy concentrating on my chest. “Endless dreams. Always like this. With us in my bed and you letting me touch you.”

“I…” I hesitate. Decide to go for it. “I want to touch you too.”

He pulls away from me and kicks off his sweatpants, until he’s almost as naked as I am. I’m only in my panties. He’s just in his boxer briefs. I can feel him straining against the front and it seems…big. Extra large.

I don’t think I can deal with that tonight.

And then we’re kissing. It’s so much easier when we’re kissing. When we’re so wrapped up in each other, it feels natural to touch and explore and test barriers. He seems to have none, but I have a few. I’m scared and excited and want more, yet I don’t.

It’s confusing, the rush of emotions that fill me.

I end the kiss and my lips travel the length of his neck, nibbling on his skin and making him actually growl. I touch his stomach, tease the waistband of his boxer briefs, briefly skim my fingers along the front of them, and I feel his full body shudder to the very depths of my soul.

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t say a word. Just lets me touch him and he touches me, and when he kisses my neck, my collarbone, then moves his way down to my chest, I throw my head back against the pillow, moaning so loudly I put my hand over my mouth.

We keep this up for a while. Until I’m lost in his touch and his lips. Until I’m anxious and needy and straining toward something I can’t quite find. Jordan slips his knee between my legs and I press closer, a sharp inhale leaving me when he bumps a particular spot.

I want more of that.

It’s like he knows and he keeps pressing his knee against me, his mouth fused with mine. The kiss turns sloppy and unpracticed and out of control and I love it. He’s losing control with me. And I can’t help the thrill that comes with the realization. I grind against his knee, not caring what he thinks or how I might look or what I might say. I lose all of my insecurities at that very moment when his touch, his mouth, his freaking knee sends me flying right off that ledge.

And straight into bliss.

“A
manda. Are you even listening to me?”

I glance up to find Mom watching me with a concerned expression on her face. “You were talking to me?” I ask weakly. My thoughts are filled with Jordan and what we did last night. That one particular moment was a first for me, and it had been perfect. Thad definitely never made me feel like that either.

I’m glad it happened with Jordan Tuttle.

Jordan drove me home and thoroughly kissed me in the Range Rover before he said good night. I stumbled up the walkway and barged into the house, thankful my parents weren’t up to see me.

My little brother Trent snickers before shoving an overflowing spoonful of Lucky Charms into his mouth. “She’s been talking to you for the past five minutes, dingus.”

“Don’t call your sister a dingus,” Mom says irritably as Trent cracks himself up. He’s twelve and a complete nuisance.

“What did you say?” I ask, ignoring Trent, who’s still muttering the word
dingus
under his breath.

“I wanted to make sure you’re going to take the SAT next Saturday.” She catches my eye roll and scowls. “You should. It wouldn’t hurt to try and up your score.”

“My score is a 1300.” They changed the scoring of the SATs this past year and a 1300 is solid.

“Yes, but you could do better. You need as much advantage as you can get, since you dropped out of band.”

The disappointment still rings in her voice. My parents are never going to let that go.

“I’m on the yearbook staff.” Though all I do is help with page layout so far, which is fun. It’ll look good on college applications. Oh, and now I can add water girl too, which shows I’m responsible. Right?