Mel’s questions: “What about parties? College is all about parties.”

That was one of the things I’d loved about being in a sorority—whole semesters of events were planned in advance. I set calendar reminders for all scheduled events, along with course project due dates and exams. If something spontaneous came up and I could fit it in, great. If it would interfere, I begged off. No one cared.

“But what about boys?”

Please. There’s never in the history of boys been a shortage of the ones willing to hook up at the drop of a What’s up? text.

“Okay, but what about actual relationships?”

I’d never craved the company of any of my boyfriends when they weren’t around—not Mitchell or Geoffrey or the two or three who didn’t last long enough to become official. I wasn’t impatient for the next text, wasn’t anticipating the next touch. I didn’t get why anyone felt like that, ever. From the outside, that kind of attachment resembled obsession. Like an unhealthy fixation. Like Get some therapy, ASAP.

Now here I was, utterly infatuated—with a guy I’d known practically all my life. I wanted to spend every waking minute with him. When I wasn’t with him, I contemplated the next time I would be. I daydreamed about him. I had never daydreamed about anyone. In. My. Life. I told myself that this preoccupation was all due to the novelty of it. That it would wear off eventually, and I would be able to get through a few hours in a row without thinking about him.

And then I wondered if I wanted that to happen.

I’d worked an evening shift for six of the twelve days Boyce and I had been official. Our first two evenings out consisted of dinner or driving into Corpus to see a movie, after which I would go home so I could study. I knew he wanted to make a good impression on Mama and Thomas—not asking me back to his place to spend the night, or at all. But when he brought me home, he’d lean back on his Trans Am, slide his arms around me, haul me onto my toes and kiss me good-night until I wanted to shove him into his own backseat in my parents’ driveway.

And then came last Friday. Six days since our weekend in Houston. I couldn’t take it anymore. When I got in his car, I said, “I was thinking burgers and beer tonight.”

He nodded, pulling onto the road. “Sounds good. Got a place in mind?”

I fussed with the seat belt and dug around in my bag, striving to sound offhand. “Maybe Whataburger… and beer out of your fridge?” I felt his eyes on me but pretended I didn’t for fear of blurting out something far too candid. Something like Forget the food—drive straight to your place and take me to bed.

His hand tightened on the wheel as if he could read the subtext under those words. “All right.”

When we got back to his place, he switched on the lamp in the living room, dropping his keys and sunglasses on the end table while I went to the kitchen, flipped the switch on the dinette’s light, and pulled plates from the cabinet. Boyce took ketchup and beer from the fridge and reached around me to set the bottles on the table, silent. Inches separated us. I felt the heat of him behind me like a furnace and I shivered, wanting to turn into his arms but frozen with confusion over his six days of gallant behavior.

I didn’t want gallant from Boyce. I wanted his rough, commanding hands on me. I wanted the boy who couldn’t pass me in our high school hallway without leering. Who’d noticed any sliver of visible skin that was usually hidden. Who’d loved making me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at his outrageous, uncouth outbursts while teachers fumed and well-mannered classmates rolled their eyes.

When his big hands gently grasped my shoulders, my breath hitched.

“Pearl?” His warm breath fanned over my ear. His thumbs hooked under the straps of my tank and caressed a lazy line, back and forth.

A powerful tremor shot through me and he stepped closer, his hands sliding down my arms to press my hands to the table. His body bracketed mine, his boots on either side of my canvas flats, his long legs and arms holding me in place against the table.

Enveloped by him, I slanted my head back onto his chest and closed my eyes, willing him to continue. His hands left mine and stole beneath my top—warm palms on cool skin. They slid up over my rib cage and my lace-covered breasts. Inhaling slowly, the tip of his nose following the line of my pulse, he kissed his way to the base of my throat. He hummed one sound on exhale, low and deep, lips progressing back the way they came, hands tightening on my breasts.

“Perfect,” he murmured, taking my earlobe between his lips and sucking, his tongue stroking.

I was grateful my hands were braced on the table because my knees buckled.

His hands fell to my waist and unfastened my shorts. In two seconds, his fingers slid into me. “Goddamn. So wet.” His words were hoarse, bringing me to the brink.

I pressed my bottom against his hard, denim-swathed length in combination of mute plea and invitation—I wanted him inside me. Just like this, right now.

He pushed my shorts and underwear lower bit by bit, squeezing and worshipping the flesh I’d never celebrated as I did in that moment. “So fucking beautiful. I want to take my time loving you, but—”

My shorts fell to my ankles, panties trailing after, tickling my calves.

“Jesus, Pearl.”

I almost cheered when I heard his zipper lower, felt his skin against my hip.

And then, “Shit—I have to get—”

“I renewed my prescription,” I said. “You can—you don’t have to—” Gah. Why was it so awkward to just say, “I’m on birth control! Carry on!”