Adam Who?
By Moondanser83
A Butterflies prequel
Author's Note:
After reading the wonderful and addictive prequels to Butterflies, written by our own lovely and talented TeeJay and Sisterdebmac I was inspired to share the story of Joan's first time. Two hours and nearly four thousand words later… here it is. Enjoy!
Butterflies and its prequels can be found here on FFN
The Haircut by Sisterdebmac, story ID: 2911133
Future Prospects by TeeJay, story ID: 3449683
Jane by TeeJay, story ID: 3741376
Butterflies (PG-13 version) by TeeJay & Sisterdebmac, story ID: 3029235
Butterflies: The Unadulterated Version by TeeJay & Sisterdebmac, story ID: 3042947
Synopsis:
During Joan's sophomore year of college, a big decision brings about an unexpected truth at a very inconvenient moment.
Rating: R for pure smut. Mature Audiences only!!!
Genre: Romance
Disclaimer:
These characters and settings are not ours. Nor are we claiming they are. They are property of CBS, Barbara Hall Productions, Sony or whoever else they might belong to. We're not making any money out of this, although that would be really cool.
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Joan Girardi walked through the snow-covered lawn separating the buildings at Arcadia Community College. Stopping to adjust the bag she habitually wore over her shoulder, she glanced skyward at the thick white clouds that promised to drop more snow before the day was over. It had been a long, cold, winter and Joan eagerly looked forward to the promise of spring, which was still a couple of months away. Sighing, she lowered her gaze and skirted a patch of ice. Only two more tests, she thought to herself, then I'll be free for three glorious weeks.
"Joan!" a male voice called from across the lawn, "Are you coming?"
Instantly Joan opened her eyes, seeking the familiar voice.
"Be right there, Marc," she called back as she, once again, adjusted her bag and began to walk at a quick pace.
Leaning against the faded brick building, a young man waited for her, his eyes following the graceful motion of her body as she walked towards him.
"I have to say, Ms Girardi," he said as she approached him, "you look hot in those jeans." Joan grinned and wrapped her arms around the man's neck, and when he wrapped his arms around her waist and swung her in a circle, she laughed. There were very few things that could have made this moment any more perfect, Joan thought as she took the man's hand and let him lead her into the building.
Marc was not a particularly tall man, the top of his head only an inch or two higher than Joan's. His chestnut hair curled slightly around his ears when it got too long, and his eyes were a clear and sparkling blue.
As they walked into the second to last class of the day, Joan found herself watching the way he moved. It could be mesmerizing, she knew, the way his limber body flowed from one motion to the next, and she knew that if she wasn't careful, he would catch her spellbound by his careless gait yet again.
Joan let her mind wander for a moment, counting back, and realized that she had been with Marc for nearly three months already. She glanced at the date in her watch and was shocked to find that the coming weekend would actually be their three month anniversary. Joan froze in her tracks. Had the past semester really come and gone that quickly?
Still wondering where the past twelve weeks had gone, Joan took her seat near the back of the lecture hall, roughly shoving her bag under her chair. She shook her head. Now is not the time to reminisce, now is the time to concentrate, she told herself sharply as the professor began to pass out the first semester final exam. Joan cleared her mind, something she had been practicing doing since her senior year in high school, and armed with a number two pencil dove into the exam.
One hour and fifteen minutes later, Joan left the lecture hall smiling, her lucky number two pencil tucked behind her ear. The test had been difficult but, thanks to Marc, she had been prepared for it. She walked towards the picnic tables under the old Elm trees, confident that she had not only passed her Sociology final, but had done well. Ten minutes later, she saw Marc exit the building and, after a quick look around, walk towards her.
"How'd you do?" he asked as he cleared the thin layer of snow off the bench and settled himself between her feet.
Joan looked down at her boyfriend. "Passed with flying colors," she told him. "I must have had a really good tutor," she teased leaning forward to kiss him.
Marc raised his arm and tangled his fingers in her long, soft hair, pulling her forward to deepen the kiss. With a smirk, Joan not only obliged, but slid down off the picnic table and wrapped her legs around his waist.
Marc was a good man, Joan thought absently as she took his face in her hands. He didn't give her the 'butterflies in the stomach' feeling that she had once thought were love, but he was kind and gentle, and most of all he made her happy. Could this be love? she wondered as he pulled her tighter against him. But before she could explore that thought any further, Marc began kissing his way up her neck, and when his lips reached her already tingling earlobe, all thoughts were wiped from Joan's mind.
Later that night Joan lay in her bed, on the second floor of her parents' house. As she stared up at the ceiling, her mind flew through millions of possible scenarios. In three days she would have been with Marc for a quarter of a year, three months of her life with one man who had never hurt her, had never doubted her. A man who had dealt with her eccentricities with a grin and had never once asked her for more than she was willing to give, emotionally or physically. Even when things became heated between them, he had never once taken advantage of her weakened resolve. Could he really be the one? Joan asked herself as her eyes followed the lines and cracks of her ceiling. Do I love him enough to give him that much of myself? But before she could come up with an answer she had fallen asleep. And while she slept she dreamt of a different boy, one who she had always thought would be the one, the one who had broken her heart into a million pieces. When she woke the next morning, Joan remembered nothing of the dream, and in her haste to prepare for her final exam of the semester, she failed to notice the small crest shaped indentations on her palms where her own nails had bitten into the skin while she had dreamt.
The morning went by quickly for Joan, and before she knew it her Civics final was over and she was free. Marc's final exam had started an hour later than hers so she was surprised when her cell phone rang only twenty minutes after she has settled herself in the campus library to wait for him.
Glancing at the digital read out Joan smiled and flipped open her phone.
"Is my little genius done with his Calculus exam already?" she teased as she shoved a well worn paperback novel into her bag.
Marc laughed, "That test was a joke. I finished it in forty minutes flat. Are you still on campus?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm at the library, just finishing cleaning out my folders. I still can't believe how much crap can accumulate in just a few months," she told him as she dragged herself to her feet and slung her bag over her shoulder. "I'll meet you at your car."
"Cool, I'll see you in a minute," he responded, then disconnected.
As Joan made her way to the main parking lot, she thought about the questions she had asked herself the night before, and she finally had an answer.
"You coming over tonight?" Marc asked before Joan had even settled herself beside him in his secondhand silver Camry.
"Of course. I wouldn't miss your end of semester party for the world," she laughed as she secured her seatbelt. "Do you need me to bring anything?"
"Just that beautiful smile," he told her with a wink as he shifted into gear and motored out of the parking lot.
Two hours later she climbed into her own car, a bag of leftovers from her lunch with Marc in hand. Absently, she buckled her seatbelt, turned the engine over and was halfway home by the time she realized where she was. Three blocks from home she turned into the parking lot of a small store that she had never visited before. Inside she purchased an iced tea, two candy bars and, blushing furiously, a pale gray box of condoms. Once back in her car, Joan buried the small box in the bottom of her purse, cracked open her favorite tea and unwrapped the first candy bar. Three blocks later she pulled into the driveway of the home she still shared with her parents, the candy bars gone, the tea forgotten.
Marc's post semester parties had always been a casual affair, or so Joan had been told, just a few of his friends blowing off steam after a week of fried brains and near neural breakdowns, but this would be the first of his parties that she would attend. She stood in front of her closet, unsure of what to wear. Finally she settled on her favorite pair of fitted jeans and a form-fitting turtleneck in her favorite shade of purple. Joan laid the outfit out across her bed then selected a pair of black heeled boots and a silver belt to go with it. After placing the boots and belt neatly at the foot of her bed, Joan undressed, and, wrapping herself in a towel, made her way to the shower.
The hot water felt good as it rolled off Joan's narrow shoulders and down her back, the comforting heat of it melting away her worry. She reveled in the pressure of the water flowing over her, and as she began to wash, she found herself imagining an entirely different set of hands running over her slick skin. By the time she made her way back to her bedroom, wrapped in her oversized blue towel, her cheeks were pink, the flush having nothing to do with the now steamy bathroom.
She dressed carefully, leaving her hair loose because she knew Marc preferred it that way. Standing in front of the full length mirror hanging on the back of her door, she inspected herself, added her two favorite rings and the silver necklace he had given her for their two month anniversary to her outfit before lightly applying cosmetics and zipping on her boots. Ten minutes later, she made her way downstairs, through the kitchen, calling over her shoulder to her mother that she probably wouldn't be home that night, and out the back door to her ten year old white Acclaim.
The eight block drive to Marc's apartment seemed to pass in mere seconds, and when Joan lifted her purse off the passenger seat, it seemed somehow heavier than before.
She walked into the small apartment without knocking and was not surprised to find several of their friends already there.
"Joan." Marc greeted her with a grin. "I was about to call you and see if you wanted me to come pick you up."
"Nah, I was just running a little behind," she told him, her face turning a pale pink as she recalled the reason for her tardiness.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, closing the door behind them.
"You want a drink?"
She let out a breath, "I would love one, what do you have?"
"I picked up a few wine coolers for you, I know you're not a big fan of beer or the heavy stuff, they're in the fridge. I'll get you one." And with that he disappeared through a small doorway.
Two minutes later, he reappeared with a glass bottle filled with bright red liquid and a plastic cup that appeared to have soda in it. If she had to guess Joan would assume it was rum and coke since that was Marc's preferred drink.
Taking a quick sip of her drink, she settled herself on the arm of the one reclining chair in the tiny living room and couldn't help laughing as she watched her friends from Psychology class, Chad and Angela, battle each other furiously in the latest addition of Mario Cart. Half an hour later Joan found herself sitting cross-legged on the floor, boots abandoned and tossed into a corner, all her concentration on retaining her Pong champion title against another of their friends, Pete.
By ten o'clock the little party was in full swing. Pizza had been ordered, movies had been broken out and the ever looming suggestion of a drinking game had been posed. Usually Joan refrained from drinking games. She had been inebriated a few times during college, but it was a rare thing. She tended to end up playing designated driver, making sure her friends made it home safely at the end of the night, but tonight they were on their own because she had no intention of leaving the apartment or Marc.
The prospect of the night to come made Joan's stomach quiver with nerves and anticipation and she found herself agreeing to play the worst of the movie drinking games, Titanic. The rules were simple. Whenever someone said the name Jack or Rose you took a drink. She'd played it once before, sipping away at her wine cooler while the others had done shots, but her anxiety had her accepting the shot glass filled with clear liquid half way through the movie.
It was nearly one in the morning when the movie finished, and Joan was glad that those who had attended the party that night all lived within walking distance because, as she pulled herself up off the floor, she felt her legs wobble.
Once his guests were gone, Marc turned to see his girlfriend standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at him with a goofy grin on her lips.
"Why, Ms Girardi," he teased, imitating a southern accent, "I do believe you are drunk."
Joan giggled. If she was honest with herself, she knew she was well beyond the 'tipsy' she had allowed herself in the past, but she felt brave and confident as she took three steps forward and wrapped her arms around Marc's neck.
"And is that a problem, Mr. Rodriguez?" she teased back as she kissed her way down his neck and across his collar bone.
Marc gently pushed Joan back, holding her at arm's length. Her eyes were a little glassy and her cheeks glowed a rosy pink, but she was far from 'trashed.' She would have a headache in the morning, but that would be the worst of it, he told himself as he pulled her back against him.
"And since your car's out front, should I assume you're staying the night?" he asked, teasing her once again.
She blushed furiously before looking up to met his eyes. "Yes," she said seriously, and in that one word Marc knew everything was about to change forever.
He glanced at the clock on the wall above her head. It was nearly one-thirty, but neither one of them had to be anywhere in the morning. He looked at the woman in his arms, who was doing her best to latch onto his earlobe, and decided they had plenty of time for her to sober up a bit. He wanted to make sure that when Joan Girardi went to his bed, to anyone's bed, for the first time that she had her wits about her. And with that thought he swept her up into his arms and carted her into the kitchen.
Joan blinked owlishly when he flipped on the bright overhead lights.
"Why are we in the kitchen?" she asked, momentarily confused.
"Because I'm hungry," he told her simply, "and I'm sure we could both use some food to soak up some of that alcohol."
She put her head down on the table, he had seen right through her and for the first time he wasn't going to let her do things her way, a way they both knew she would regret later on. Smiling, she straightened up and turned once again to face him.
"So what are you making me?" she asked with a giggle.
Twenty minutes later, Marc poured them both steaming bowls of macaroni and cheese from a box, accompanied by large glasses of water and two Advil each. They sat in the living room as they ate, laughing and poking fun at various infomercials, and by the time Joan's bowl was empty she was feeling like herself once again, and the nerves were back.
I can do this, she told herself as they washed out their bowls, I want to do this. But when he took her hand to lead her down the short hall to the bedroom she felt her body tremble.
When they reached the doorway he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."
With that simple statement Joan knew it was time, that Marc was the one she wanted to give that special part of herself to. She took his hand, leading him into his own bedroom and closed the door behind them.
She paused for a moment, once inside the bedroom, staring at the neatly made full-sized bed. It was not the first time she had seen the bed, and this wouldn't be the first time she had slept in it, but for some reason it seemed different, as though the room itself knew what was about to happen. Marc wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his head on her shoulder.
"It's all up to you," he said quietly. "You're in control tonight."
Joan turned her head, kissing him on the corner of his mouth.
"You really are perfect," she told him, turning in the circle of his arms to face him.
"Now don't go inflating my ego," he laughed as he kissed her.
It started out as a simple, harmless kiss, but when she threaded her fingers through his hair he couldn't help diving deeper. Tightening his grip on her waist, he pulled her against him, changing the angle of this kiss as he did. Pressed torso to torso he could feel her breath catch when he ran his hand down her back, dipping his fingers beneath the hem of her sweater. Breaking the kiss, she stepped back a quarter of an inch and raised her arms to allow him to slip the sweater off over her head.
She stood before him, wearing nothing but a plain white bra, and dark blue jeans that fit like a second skin. He felt his breath hitch in his throat and when she stepped forward and pulled his own shirt up over his head, he felt his heart flutter and his knees tremble.
Skin to skin they reconnected, Marc's nimble fingers playing over her soft flesh. When he cupped her breast through her thin bra, Joan barely contained a gasp, and when he circled his thumb around her already hard nipple she couldn't help arching her back. Slowly he reached behind her with his free hand and undid the clasp of her bra. When the material fell away he couldn't help but stare at the two beautiful breasts displayed before him. They were full and firm, the palest white, each one topped with a small pink nipple. Without thinking, he bent down and flicked his tongue over the one not covered by his thumb and she moaned. Slowly, almost painfully slow, he circled her rock hard nipple with his tongue, occasionally sucking it into his mouth. He did the same to the second nipple, gently kneading her other breast with his hand.
She thought she was going to die. The sensation of his lips and tongue on her body was overwhelming, and even as nerves danced in her belly she felt herself go damp. As he caressed and suckled at her, Joan found herself running her hands over his shoulders and down his back till they danced at his waistline. Cautiously, she allowed her hand to slide lower, rubbing him through his soft cotton slacks.
He moaned as her small hand cupped him through the material. He had dreamed of this moment countless times over the past three months, and prayed that he would have the control to make the ecstasy of it last. He hesitantly unbuttoned her jeans and slowly drew them downward. Joan froze. She didn't try to stop him, or even give the slightest hint that she wanted him to, but Marc found himself staring into Joan's eyes as he helped her step out of the jeans that now pooled around her ankles. Without looking down, her hands made their way to his belt, unbuckling it with trembling fingers and when they stood in nothing but underwear, he took her hand and led her to the bed.
She lay beside him, nervous and excited and unbelievably warm. Bangs stuck to her damp forehead, but were soon forgotten as he began to trail his fingers down her stomach. When he reached the top of her pale pink panties he stopped, looking down at her for reassurance that this is what she really wanted. She smiled and gave a slight nod, and his hand continued lower. When he cupped her through her soaked panties, Joan bucked, and when he slipped a finger beneath the cotton, she nearly screamed.
She lay on her back trembling furiously, heat pumping off her as he circled her hard pink clit with his finger. They had fooled around before, but she had always been careful to keep that thin cotton barrier between them. Now his soft fingers caressed her folds gently, making her stomach tighten and her legs shake. When he slipped a single finger inside her, Joan bit back a moan. Breathing heavily, she reached for the waistband of his boxers as he lifted her hips, slipping her now drenched panties off.
Realizing what she wanted, he lifted himself off the bed and helped her free him from his boxers. Lying beside her, Marc's member stood at nearly full attention, and when she gently wrapped her soft hand around him, he thought he would come on the spot. His hand continued to explore her nether regions as she slowly stroked him, her fingers coming up and over the sensitive tip. Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, Joan rolled onto her side and whispered breathlessly into his ear.
"There are condoms in my purse."
On shaking legs he retrieved her purse from the other side of the room and dug out the small gray box that she had buried in the bottom of it. She watched as he slipped one on before laying back down beside her. With a shaking hand she stroked him through the thin membrane, took a deep breath and nodded.
Kissing her every step of the way, Marc poised himself over Joan.
"This might hurt a little, but I promise the pain won't last long."
She took a steadying breath, and leaned up to kiss him as he pushed into her as gently as he could. Once he was halfway in, Marc lifted one hand, caressing her face, then pushed in the rest of the way. She felt a snap, like being hit with a rubber band, somewhere deep inside her, but by the time the pain even registered it was nearly forgotten replaced by a barrage of new sensations.
Marc moved slowly, excruciatingly slowly, determined not to hurt her any more than was absolutely necessary, but already he could see her eyes fogging as she approached her first orgasm. When the spasm wracked through her, he held on and when she surprised him by suddenly flipping their positions so that she was astride him, he thought he would lose it.
The feeling was like nothing Joan had ever experienced before. The pleasure was only heightened by the slight pain of losing her virginity, and when the orgasm had ripped through her body, she had thought that she would die from the pleasure of it. Now she straddled Marc and rode him slowly, his patient hands rubbing her tender breasts. As she rocked, her mind turned to another, and without realizing it, without meaning to, it was suddenly another man's hands on her breast, another man quivering between her legs. She rocked harder, faster, as the image and scent of another man filled her mind and when she came again she cried out.
"Adam," she moaned.
Marc, who had followed her over that second slippery edge, fought his way through the post-coital bliss, one questioning burning like a wildfire through his mind, bursting out of his mouth.
"Adam who?"