“Lane,” I warn. “I need to come, baby.”

She slides up my body, lithe and fucking perfect, her nipples grazing my chest. She kisses me like she was born to do nothing else, and when we finally break apart, gasping for air, she says, “Be gentle with me.” I don’t ask why, just reach into the drawer on my nightstand and pull out a condom while she sits up. We apply it together, in the dark, and it’s the most erotic thing in the world, having both our hands on my dick preparing for what’s to come. I kiss between her breasts, my arms around her waist while she shifts into position, her hand going between us to guide me in and holy fucking shit, we’re SEXING!

I have to see her. Need to. I reach for the lamp, but she's quick to take my hands and link our fingers, pressing them into the pillow beside my head. She's moving me in and out of her, and I was wrong. She wasn't made to kiss me. She was made for this. To be on top of me, straddling me, and she collapses slightly, her weight on her elbows and those sounds, those sounds, and I try to think of something else that'll stop me from coming, and the only thing that comes to mind is World of Warcraft. Her hair brushes against my face while I lean forward, find her nipple with my mouth and she moans out a “Fuck” while I do everything I can not to break my hands free from her grasp and grip her waist and pound into her… “Be gentle with me.” So I let her do her thing but she's not gentle herself, and I'm so close.

“I’m so close,” she pants. “So close.” And she’s moving, faster and faster, deeper and deeper and WorldOfWarcraftWorldOfWarcraftWorldOfWarcraft.

“Shit shit shit,” she breathes.

WORLDOFFUCKINGWARCRAFT!

“Oh my god!”

I sense the exact moment her orgasm hits her, and I finally allow myself the same pleasure. Then she collapses on top of me, her entire body soaked with sweat. A few seconds later, she breaks out in a giggle and rolls off of me. “Why did you shout World of Warcraft?”

My entire body bursts into flames. “Shut up! I did not!”

“You totally did,” she manages to say through her laughing fit.

My feet are heavy, legs wobbly when I sit on the edge of the bed and “clean up.” I warn her that I'm going to switch the lamp on so her eyes can adjust and when the light's on, I turn to her. The blanket's pulled up to her nose and her hair is a mess, strands caught on the sweat on her brow, and she's flushed, not from embarrassment but exertion. I kiss the top of her head. “You're kind of amazing, you know?”

She smiles, sweet and innocent and a complete contrast to how she was a few minutes ago.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m good.”

“Good is the enemy of great,” I throw back at her.

Her smile widens. “I’m beyond great, Lucas. I’m in love.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

LUCAS

We ride to senior prom in a limo paid for by Dad and chosen by me. It was the best one the company had: fancy leather seats, sunroof, DVD player, etc. I'd picked it out because I'd planned on taking Laney on a little cruise beforehand (aka sex in a limo), but Leo and Logan are with us because—get this—they're dating twins! Not only twins but seniors. They go from fighting over one girl to dating two who are fucking identical. Needless to say, the sex in the limo became unachievable. That, and the fact that Laney was late to get ready because she's head of the prom decorating committee and had to be there until the last possible second to make sure everything was perfect. I tried telling her that no one pays attention to the decorations, that people go, some loser/winner spikes the punch, you dance to maybe two songs, then you bail to the after-party.

“But it’s my first and last dance, and I want to make sure it's perfect,” she said, and she said it in such a way that I felt like an asshole for not caring about the decorations and that I'd been to every single dance, each with a different date, but honestly? I would've taken Laney to all of them had I thought I was good enough. Still, guilt is a dangerous emotion. It causes you to do stupid things like stay up until 2:30 am with your girlfriend swiping at an iPad looking through eleventy-three million different versions of the same fucking centerpieces. But I love her. Really, I do. I love her so much I even spent hours at the mall with her making sure my tie matched the exact shade of her dress. Periwinkle, by the way, is the color of her dress. I’d never even heard the word periwinkle before but she swears it’s a thing, and on her, periwinkle is more than a shade, more than a dress. It’s a statement. One that says, “Hey, boys, look at what I’ve been hiding all these years!” and I already want to punch every single guy who realizes what they’ve been missing.

“Do you know who’s going to be prom queen and king?” one of the twins asks Lane. Her name’s Kristen or Kirsten and no, I didn’t get the names confused, I got them confused because yes, their names are Kristen and Kirsten, and as much as I’d like to make my opinion known on how silly I think it is when parents give their kids matching names, I can’t. Because:

Lucy

Lucas

Leo

Logan

Lincoln

Liam

Lachlan

The dance is held at a ballroom attached to a hotel, the same ballroom all dances are held because small-town living is rad. By the time we get there, Garray’s already been kicked out for being drunk.

He whistles when Laney steps out of the limo, fucks her with his eyes. “Lucas, bruh, who’s this hot piece of ass?” As if he doesn’t know. As if he wasn’t the first one to lock lips with her.

Laney rolls her eyes, physically drags me away and up the seven steps toward the dance. We hand our tickets over to Miss Lepsitch at the door and then enter a winter wonderland. I knew what the theme was, of course, and I’d seen the room before, but now, with the lights and the music and the people and the dancing and, “Wow, Babe. You nailed it.”

She smiles wide, her cheeks lifting her glasses from her nose. “You think?”

“Trust me. I’ve been to plenty of these, remember? This is the best one yet.”

“Good,” she says, “I wanted to go off with a bang.”

When my mom was alive, music was a constant in the house. Anything from jazz to hip hop, rock to reggae. She’d listen to old records and whatever was on the radio, and when a song came on that she loved, she'd pick up the nearest child and dance with them. I was ten years old the last time she made me dance. The song was Charlene by Anthony Hamilton, one of her favorites. She smiled down at me, her eyes tired, and placed one of my hands on her waist, the other in hers. She swayed us from side to side, the music taking her on a journey I knew nothing about. Halfway through the song, I was sick of holding her hand, sick of two-stepping around the room. I told her dancing was lame. She shook her head. “One day, Lucas, you're going to fall in love with a girl, like your father fell in love with me, and you'll understand.”

“Understand what?” I asked.

“That it’s not about the dance. It’s about moving, as one, with a person whose heart beats to the same rhythm as yours. It’s about love, about life.”