I line up our privates; only our underwear separates us, and let’s be honest, mine is merely a scrap of material that conceals nothing. I feel everything—the head of his dick, the shaft, his balls.

The tip rubs my clit in the most pleasurable way, and I bite down on my bottom lip, loving it.

My breathing quickens.

“Dry fucking should become a sport.” Jackson sighs, out of breath.

“Only dry fucking?” The words slip from my tongue and say what I don’t have the nerve to vocalize: Let’s have sex.

Our gazes meet, and I continue bearing down on his dick, round and round, my eyes closing as I tip my head back, face toward the ceiling.

They’re still closed when Jackson’s giant palms cup my breasts, thumbs stroking my nipples.

“Your tits are…”

Amazing—yes, I know.

“Can I…” Jackson hesitates. “Can I…”

Can you what? Finish your sentence before I die from the pleasure of having your hands caressing my boobs.

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he does say, “Lean forward and grab the headboard.”

Um. Yes, sir.

I lean forward, grasping for the headboard, and Jackson meets my body, mouth latching onto one of my nipples.

Ahh, I see. ‘Can I suck your tits?’ is what he wanted to ask but didn’t have the guts to say.

“Oh Jackson,” comes my soft murmur. It feels…it feels…

My toes curl. I throb; my vagina actually has a heartbeat I can feel, blood rushing straight to my crotch as I rotate his tip along my slit.

Wet. Hot. Dry fucking.

With his mouth still sucking on my nipple, Jackson’s other hand reaches between us. Hooks my underwear with whatever finger he’s using, draws back the fabric.

“I want you so bad,” I moan—or more like croak.

“I want you too.”

Yes, please. Yes. Fuck me.

Everything with Jackson is thought out; he is the least impulsive guy I’ve ever met, if you don’t count the time he stole my damn chicken sandwich in the cafeteria, although I suspect he planned that out, too. Waited until it was done, watched it cook before snatching it.

But sex? He isn’t just going to have sex with me unless he’s already given it thought and has come to a conclusion about it.

“What if I fuck it up?” He’s referring to sex.

“You won’t, baby.” I take a hand down off the headboard and rake my fingers through his thick hair. “You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

“How could you possibly?”

“What if I come after two minutes?”

Er, I’m not liking the sound of that, but I’m also not about to tell him that. He’d be crushed.

“Then we do it again when you’re ready.” I bend forward, hair hitting the pillow behind him. “We’ll wait.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay. Then we won’t.” A bubble of laughter. “You tell me what you want, Jackson, and we’ll do it. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” I kiss his temple. His cheekbone. The corner of his mouth. “I love you.”

This boy—he slides a hand up my chest, over my collarbone and behind my neck. Pulls me to him and kisses me soundly on the lips.

It’s like a drug, a potent one that’s making me weak everywhere. This kiss is everything—it’s giving me life and I suspect it’s giving him life, too.

Slow and meaningful. Emotional. Beautiful.

Jackson tries to move his body into a sitting position, dumping me to the mattress on my back. Shucks off his underwear, pushing it down his ridiculous thighs until they disappear somewhere beneath the covers, never to resurface.

He begins to peel mine down, sliding them slowly over my hips, thighs, and calves.

We both hold our breath; this is a big fucking deal, and the significance is not lost on me.

When we’re both naked, Jackson Jennings, first-string wide receiver on the Iowa football team and future second-round draft pick in the pros, lays his giant body next to me and props himself on his elbow to study me.

Naked, naked, naked.

Before we go any further, “Do you have a…” The word gets stuck in my throat, but I have to ask. “I’m on the pill, but…I mean, it’s up to you. I know you don’t have any STDs because you haven’t had sex yet—can you get one from gym equipment?” I laugh at my own stupid joke. “Should we, you know—put one on?”

Shut up, Charlie, you’re babbling and sound like an idiot.

“Plus, I really like you and love you, but we don’t need Jackson Jennings Junior Junior Junior running around. Wait—how many juniors would that be? Three? Is that how that works?” Oh my god, I’m so nervous. “My point is, do you have a condom?”

First, Jackson stares. Then, he grins, his white teeth blinding in the dark. He’s so gorgeous when he smiles, and my stomach flips all over again.

Then Jackson frowns. “I didn’t grab one—they’re in the bathroom. I…I didn’t think we’d be screwin’.”

Nervously, I bite down on my lower lip. “Um. I did? I’m sorry, I just didn’t know? And I knew you wouldn’t because you’re a gentleman—”

I can’t even finish my sentence, because Jackson is rolling me on top of him, slapping me firmly on the ass and laughing. Loudly.

Loud enough to wake whomever is sleeping in the next room over.

“Gentleman? Darlin’, no one’s accused me of bein’ a gentleman in my entire life.”

Darlin’.

Ma entyer lie-ff.

He makes my heart race, this guy, with his playful banter and sweet talk—and that slap to my ass was icing on a scrumptious Jackson Jennings cake.

I set the condom on the bedside table when the light was turned off earlier, instincts telling me to be prepared, and I’m glad because the last thing I need is a baby. Sure, I’m on the pill, but those fail, and I don’t need any surprise pregnancies. I don’t need to be that statistically low number—you know, the one your gynecologist warns you about when they’re writing your prescription. One percent chance of still getting pregnant and blah blah blah.

This isn’t a romance novel, this is my life and his, and a baby at twenty-one wouldn’t be cute. God, he would think I was trying to trap him, and that would kill me.

The talk hasn’t ruined the mood; talking about sex and screwing hasn’t made his dick limp, thank God. In fact, Jackson looks more aroused than he did before, pupils dilated—and not from the dim light.

He palms my breast again. “I love your body, babe.”

Babe. He babed me and I didn’t hate it.

I always thought I would—literally roll my eyes when I hear my friends’ boyfriends say it. Babe. Babe. Babe.

Barf.

Except…I don’t hate it, not even a little.

He tears the condom open and I watch, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Lick my lips in anticipation, though I’m kind of scared shitless.

We’re about to have sex and he’s never done it…

“Have you ever put one of these on before?”

“No. I’m a fuckin’ virgin, remember?”