Left Drowning

No one else could ever kiss me like this, of that I am positive.

I could breathe him in forever.

I could fall in love forever.

It is impossible to deny that I am clearly starved for physical contact, for sexual contact, but that still doesn’t entirely explain how desperately I want to tear off this boy’s clothes after I’ve shied away from everyone else. Never have I been so turned on. I move to the very edge of the bed and drop my hands to Chris’s lower back, bringing him against me. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tightly as he presses his waist between my legs. His lips are sealed against mine, his tongue perfect. I ca

Right now, I know that this is right, even though it’s baffling. Chris has tapped into the small part of me that still seeks hope. And pleasure.

His mouth moves to my neck, his lips grazing against my skin and his breath heated. The only downside to lifting the back of his shirt is that he has to take his lips from my skin so that I can pull it over his head.

Holy hell, he’s gorgeous.

I touch his chest. As I’d seen when we were by the lake, he is all muscle. Lean, and defined, and utterly incomparable. And now I get to have my hands on him. Mesmerized by his body, I follow the lines of his chest muscles with my hand, tracing my fingers across his nipples, down to his abs, and still to the faint trail of hair that leads into his jeans. Then I work my way back up again, aware that I could do this for hours. Chris groans softly. There is no insecurity about what I am doing nagging at me, no doubt about how to touch him. Feeling his body, exploring him, is intuitive. Just having my hands on this boy seems like it could fulfill any lustful craving I have. He is absolutely captivating.

As he kneels in front of me, I lean in and sweep my lips over his chest, kissing and touching my tongue to him every now and then. His hands are in my hair, cradling me while I taste his body. Later, when my mouth knows every inch of his muscled chest, I lift my mouth to his. He does not hesitate and kisses me again. I lean back onto the bed, and he crawls into me, resting his weight against me. My hips press up into him as he kisses his way from my mouth to my breasts, over my shirt and down my stomach.

“Christopher.” I can’t help murmuring his name, and I have to stop myself from saying it over and over. I feel such relief to have found him.

Then his weight is on me again, and he kisses me deeply as he presses his body between my legs. I feel how hard he is, how much he wants me.

But then, without warning, he pushes up on his arms, panting a bit. He touches his cheek to mine, and I can feel that I’ve lost him. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but he is clearly stopping this before it goes any further. The sudden distance between us, the wall, threatens to wreck me. Whatever was there a few seconds ago is gone.

Chris kisses me lightly on the cheek and whispers, “I don’t … I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Oh. Okay.” I have no idea what to say or what has happened. And I don’t know why he hasn’t moved away from me or why he is trembling. So I ask. “Chris. Why are you shaking?”

“I’m not,” he says. But he totally is.

I brush my hands up and down his arms, wanting to touch him for as long he’ll let me. He drops his head into the crook of my neck as his breathing eases. I am so confused.

He lifts up on his arms. “I’m really supposed to be studying. Whopper geology test on Monday.”

I turn to the side and face away from him. “Of course. I’ve got tons to do, also.”

The next few minutes are awful. A horribly awkward scene while we extricate ourselves from each other’s hold; me, muttering an idiotic “thank you” for the help with my playlist, and Chris looking apologetic as he yanks on his shirt, only making me feel worse.

After a stupidly casual good-bye, I rush from his room before he can say anything else. The walk from his room up to mine is unforgivingly long. Talk about a walk of shame. I slam the door to my room and fling myself onto the bed.

I sniff. Well, fuck, I certainly don’t smell great. That’s one problem. Perhaps my stench drove him away? It’s not like I pla

But, damn, that was hot. Even though I don’t know why Chris pulled away or what I did wrong, that was still been hot.

And that is enough to make me smile.

JULY

TWENTY-FIRST

“I’m going down to the water,” Blythe calls into the house and then leans forward on the deck’s wooden railing. Even with all the trees, there is still an amazing view of the ocean cove, the water sparkling in the mid-afternoon light. And she loves that briny smell, especially strong now, at low tide. The stink always makes her younger brother, James, wrinkle his nose, but she breathes it in with pleasure.

“Have fun at the clam graveyard hour!” James shouts. That’s what he calls low tide. Blythe’s repeated explanations that the smell has nothing to do with dying clams, and, that in fact, the clams are just fine and perfectly alive, does nothing to make him like it any better. Or understand her love for it.

The truth for his sour attitude, she thinks, is that James is still pissed that she was the one to choose their vacation house from the list of possible rentals her parents printed out.

It didn’t seem worth being pissy about. It was only for two weeks, after all. Once the fourteen days were up, Blythe’s family would finally be able to move into their new summerhouse in Bar Harbor, a house called The Stone’s Throw, where the current owners were taking longer than expected to pack up their things. The delay was a surprise and put Blythe’s parents in an awkward spot; by mid-July, it was virtually impossible to find any place to rent near popular Bar Harbor. That’s how they ended up in Chilford, a couple of hours south, in an old house.

Luckily, it turned out to be a fine substitute vacation home for the place in Bar Harbor, and they settled in right away.

Blythe knows that fun, easy vacations aren’t easy to come by for most families, but hers pulls them off every time. She knows that’s mostly because her parents walk that magic line between being involved in her life and giving her space to grow up on her own. Plus, her brother is pretty damn great, too. It seems like she and James should fight more, given that she is seventeen and he is fifteen, but they don’t. He is levelheaded, disciplined, and reasonable—many things that she is not. But under that cool exterior, he is kind. Truly, incredibly, deeply kind. And miraculously modest, considering that he is the top-ranked soccer player in Massachusetts. She is definitely the more carefree and sillier of the two, but James seems to appreciate that about her. They are a good pair.

“Hey, James! Jamie!” she hollers. “The dying clams want to say hello to you! Come down to the beach with me!”

“What? My God, quit yelling, you nut.” Her brother slides open the screen door and puts his hands on his hips. “We’re on a relaxing vacation. Soft voices, calm attitudes.” He half smiles, and the spark in his eye tells her that he is most definitely in a good mood.

“Come swimming! It’s a perfect blue-sky afternoon. There’s a dock not too far out that we can swim to.”

“I just scarfed down a massive sandwich. Later, okay? I’ll have to work off the six pounds of food I ate.” He pats his muscled stomach. He is a good-looking kid, Blythe knows, yet so far he has resisted the nearly incessant phone calls and overall interest from swooning girls. Soccer is his priority. “You shouldn’t swim that far alone, though,” he continues. “Take the boat, and I’ll watch you from up here.”