He hasn't seen much of her skin – and he doesn't know how long it will take to strip down to it. There are clothes and slurs and words he put there festering between them. She has almost as many masks as him, though they seem to be falling down as he touches her.
That's their difference. He's been touched enough to be immune.
He can't understand this synonymous feeling of skin and emotion – the only thing they have in common is that you can fuck them both up. One's a lot more fun. Her spine curves – arches – and he wants to think bridges. Bridges. Bridges being built – but no his muscles twist, jaw clenching. Fingers claw at his shirt.
He's seventeen and he's known this girl for years.
His hand grasps at safe, clammy flesh and he finds resistance. Virgin. And he never did actually know – but he assumes a lot of things. His mind assumes and his body wants to break the fuck up in her – consequences are the enemy. She moves like she's scared and he separates it out – is it the skin she's scared of?
And he's seventeen. He would stop if she asked him to but he's not condemning himself to a slow burn. He's not in the mood to be charcoal. She's shaking, the good kind. Quiver, gasp, quiver – he's fucking insane for her.
She sucks the air out of his mouth. He nearly chokes. She's scared and he should give in.
But his body's full of reactions. This is a mutual thing. God he wants it. Wants anything she's offering. He'll miss this when she gets a clue.
She's offering up and he's never been selfless enough to wonder the whys. He's good at the hows – the wheres. He'll accept graciously. He wants her pants around her knees.
He bets he could hit every point on her body perfect – and he would if he thought that she'd let him. She writhes, legs falling apart. And she might. And he might die if she says no. They push a little further every time.
He's seventeen and spoilt and not used to hearing 'no' from anyone. Except her.
He's used to no clothes and this is becoming entirely too synonymous for him. He's not ready for that. He's not in love with… anyone anymore.
His fingers itch but he is going to fuck up everything if he does it tonight. If he gets her clothes off he'll rip the rest away – the angry parts between them. She'll be startled. He'll be sorry. And they'll both be lonely tomorrow – hands under the covers grasping at their own skin.
So he doesn't and it's the most restraint he thinks he's ever had. He's still angry. Fuelled. But if it had been someone else who had relayed Lilly's death he would have hated them instead. Now he hates with universality, a general loathing. It's not pinned to her anymore – but he is.
He is and he likes it. And she's scared of his skin. He's scared of his sentiment. And they are going to wake up one day – in his pool house, in her car, on the beach, down the backstreets, two towns over, in a hotel, in a motel, on the bedroom floor – and realize this has gone too far. He's a very stupid boy, but she should know better.
He has known this girl forever and she is going to fuck him up.