He can’t believe it’s only twelve fifteen by the time they’re pulled into the woods. It feels like it’s been a thousand years since he walked out the door of Victoria Wallace’s house. But it’s a completely different world here, parked in the woods with Deanne. Here, he can believe that nothing happened, that everything is going to be okay.
In the summer, he wouldn’t come here—there’s a trail down to the reservoir, where high school kids and college students go to swim and drink beer even though there’s signs everywhere warning that it’s dangerous, and every once in a while, the cops break things up—but with the snow and the cold, they’ll have privacy. The dirt road runs fifty feet off the main road into a gravel parking lot. With the trees, once you’re parked, you can’t even see the main road.
“Leave the truck running, okay?”
She’s not the first girl he’s slept with. Claire Reynolds in ninth grade was the first. They dated from Christmas through the end of the summer. Then last year, for a couple of months, Marissa Wells. Nice enough girl, hot as hell, but being with her was too easy. She never seemed to have any opinions of her own, and he could tell she was only sleeping with him because she thought that’s what she was supposed to do. After that, off and on, Emily Bell. They were never really dating, but by then he could drive and had his truck, and her parents were never around. She’d let him come over and do whatever he wanted as long as he did what she wanted in return, her red hair dripping over his stomach, splayed on the pillow, telling him where to touch and how.
And yet, for all of that, he’s always taken by surprise by how soft girls are. Deanne’s just finished cross-country season—she’s good enough that if she wants to run for a D-III college, she can—and she runs distance during track season, so she’s strong and lean. But still. She leans back her seat as far as it will go, pulls him across. He tries to keep his weight on his elbow, knows he’s twice her weight, runs his hand up under her shirt, her skin radiating heat, and even though he can feel the muscle under her skin, when his hand passes over her ribs and over her bra, he’s stunned once again at the give of her flesh.
She’s got one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in to kiss her, her other hand working at his jacket, pulling it off. He props himself up, shrugs off the jacket, and then she’s peeling off his T-shirt. She slides her hands up his sides, brings one hand across and over, traces his nipple, then leans forward and touches it with the tip of her tongue.
It’s awkward, of course, simply because of their ages and because they are new at this—Deanne’s only slept with one other boy, and that was only a couple of times—and because they are new at this specifically with each other. It doesn’t help that Jessup’s truck doesn’t have an extended cab, that there’s no backseat, that the passenger seat only reclines so far, a forty-five-degree angle. They kiss and touch each other, Deanne’s shirt and bra off, and then struggle to turn, so now Jessup is on the bottom, his back against the seat, Deanne letting her full weight press down on him. He can’t believe how warm she feels, her breasts against his chest.
He reaches down, slides his hand past the waistband of her leggings, loves the way she takes a sharp breath when he touches her, the wetness against his fingers. She’s got her mouth against his neck, moves it up against his ear, and then lets him peel her leggings and underwear off. They’re frantic now, her hands scrabbling at the button of his jeans, he helps to push them down around his ankles, and then there’s a pause.
She pulls a condom out of her bag, tears it open. She’s looking at Jessup and Jessup’s looking at her, and she laughs a little as she tries to figure out which way to unroll it. He can hear himself let out a moan as she puts it on him, and then she straddles him, reaches down and guides him inside her.
She has her eyes closed now, and he watches her. Loves the way she bites her lip a bit, the way her eyes aren’t just closed but are clenched. She starts slow, moves faster, grinding herself against him. He reaches down like Emily Bell taught him to—not that he’d tell Deanne that—and helps her along. Soon enough they’re both gasping, Deanne shuddering and letting out a small cry, Jessup right behind her.
They stay still for a few minutes. Deanne is panting, her breath coating his neck, her lips occasionally touching his skin, tickling. He’s got his arms wrapped around her back, likes just staying there, inside of her, the two of them with nowhere to go.