ʃʊd/

verb

1. used to indicate obligation, duty, or correctness, typically when criticizing someone’s actions.

I help Sadie with Grams to settle in for the night, and then take any personal things from my room to the spare one, making space for Sadie to move in. I say goodbye to the curtains, the window, the wallpaper I once loved/hated, my chest aching and swelling at the same time. Then I begin to pack what little things I’m bringing back to St. Louis and shoot off a text to Dad, keeping him informed with all that’s going on with Grams.

My phone beeps with a reply no more than a minute later, but it’s not from Dad. It’s from Josh.

Josh: Look. I’m just going to be honest here. I’ve been out in the driveway nailing trick after trick for over an hour trying to get your attention. I’ve even treated your grams’s porch steps as if they were the gnarliest three-stair I’ve ever ripped. I know you’re heading off early tomorrow, so I’m working against the clock, but are you planning on coming out and kissing me any time soon? Or should I just stab myself in the chest, rip out my heart, and leave it out in the open?

With a smile, I set the phone on the nightstand and shower, using the time to come up with a response. When I get out, more messages are waiting.

Josh: Stupid autocorrect.

Josh: What I meant to say was *hi.*

Josh: So hi.

* * *

Josh halts to a stop when I step out on the porch wearing one of Grams’s long nightgowns. He waits for me to get to him, eying me from head to toe, before saying, “You look insanely hot, Becs.”

Shoving his chest, I roll my eyes at him.

He stifles his laugh, then says, “It’s about fire-trucking time you came out. I’m pretty sure I’ve been out here so long, my toes are bleeding. I think I need a nurse. Hey! You know a nurse, right?”

I take his hand, and practically drag him toward his apartment using my fake annoyance to hide the fact that I’m actually terrified of what will happen the moment we’re in there. As soon as we’re in his house, we switch positions. I let him lead me down the hall, toward the semi-darkness of his room and once we’re inside, he closes the door after me. I lean against it, using it as my emergency escape. “Tommy’s over at Nat’s,” he says, and the fear inside me escalates. I don’t know what I expected when I met him outside, but I figured it couldn’t be too bad if Tommy was in the house. But he’s not. We’re alone. Just me and him and a thousand unanswered questions.

“So…” He rocks on his heels, his hands in his pockets while I flatten mine against the door, my fingers scratching at the timber as if it’s somehow going to create a hole wide enough for me to escape through. “Why do you look so scared right now?”

After swallowing my nerves, I type on my phone and let the electronic words fill the silence. “Because I am.”

He sighs before stepping forward. “Why?”

I chew my lip as I type out the message, then lift my gaze and watch his response when I tap my phone. “After tonight, nothing changes, okay? I go back to college, and you go back to skating. This doesn’t mean anything. Got it?”

His eyes are slow as they lift to mine, then he shakes his head. “You can play your games. I’ll play mine. But you’re wrong, Becs. This changes everything.”

“Why? It doesn’t have to,” Cordy says.

He takes a moment, gathering his thoughts into words. “Because I’m in love with you, Becs. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

My eyes drift shut, his confession knocking all sense out of me. I blindly reach for him and find his chest, then move up to his neck, my heart thumping with the abundance of insecurities infiltrating my mind. But it doesn’t stop me from kissing him.

I kiss him until the questions disappear, and we’re nothing but tangled limbs and urgent emotions on a bed of memories. Our hands touch, tease, re-familiarize. I get lost in his taste, in his kiss, in his words. Somewhere far, far in the back of my mind, I know it should feel wrong. But it doesn’t. I want him this close. I want his lips all over me, his breath warming my skin, his hands drifting, touching, feeling me in ways I’ve feared and craved at the same time. I remove his shirt and skim my nails up his back. He squirms, a light chuckle escaping him. “Good to know you remember how much I hate that,” he mumbles, his legs between mine, and his weight on his forearms. I fight against his attention, the same time I fall deep in his web.

My fingers lace through his hair, tugging harshly to pull him away from me.

“Stop?” he asks. I should say yes. I should push him away. I should do a lot of other things but kiss him harder, begging, pleading for him not to stop. He groans when I pull back, my head landing on the pillow. He’s still holding himself over me, his hands in my hair. He licks his lips, tasting the aftermath. “That’s all I get?”

I laugh, silent but real, and he nuzzles my neck, his body pressing into mine. I can feel his excitement against my center, his slow kisses like pure agony toying with my need. Then he starts to move, gentle thrusts setting my entire body on fire. He pulls away from my neck and a moment later, we’re kissing again, moving together, mouths and tongues franticly searching and quickly finding a familiar rhythm. He rears back, his eyes on mine. “I missed you every day, Becs.”

He feels so right.

So perfect.

Our fingers lace together, his palms pressing down on either side of my head. He keeps the kisses relentless, breaking only to catch our breaths and I feel myself fading, rising and falling with the constant pressure building inside me. “Let me touch you,” he says, his voice rough. “Fuck, I need to touch you.” He doesn’t wait for a response, though. He simply shifts to the side, taking me with him. His fingers brush the space between my legs. I know he can feel it—how wet I am—and I know what he wants to do. His mouth finds mine just as he pushes my panties to the side. He slides a finger inside me. Slow. Soft. Painfully arousing. Each movement is measured, calculated, deliberately prolonging my release. His mouth, his hands, his every touch bringing me closer and closer to the edge. He knows what I like, what I want, what I need. Because he knows my body better than anyone. Better than myself.

He rolls onto his back, taking me with him while his fingers continue to pleasure me. Now I’m on top, my hands and knees keeping me upright. He sits up, forcing me to do the same just as his thumb finds my clit, halting my breath. “Take your clothes off, baby.”

He’s so bad.

So, so bad.

With a grin, I do as he asks. My breasts fall free, nipples hard and needy an inch from his lips. His eyes drift shut as he leans forward, lips warm and wet when he takes me in his mouth. He keeps the same pace between my legs, slow and steady and in my head I’m cursing, over and over, while I breathe harshly through my release. My body trembles, and God, I needed this. Needed him. I hold his head to my chest, using his body to keep mine steady. “God, Becs,” he rushes out, his breaths as sharp as mine. I reach over to his nightstand where I know he keeps condoms.

“You should check the expiration date,” he says.

My lips part.

He laughs quietly. “It’s been a while.” He shrugs. “And I haven’t had a need to buy any more.”