The Awakening of Poppy Edwards Read Free Page A

the bathroom.
    ‘You sure?’ His face was set. Flushed like mine.
    ‘Yes.’
    His hands were shaking as he dragged off his clothes. Mine, too, as I fumbled with what was left of my own, kicking off my trousers, my shoes, my stockings, my underwear, shivering, my fingers icy, all of me icy except inside.
    Naked, he looked even more impressive than with clothes on. Hard-packed muscles that rippled under the skin. I’d remember that later, when I replayed it all in my head. The contrast of tanned arms and pale shoulders. The rough hairs on his chest. I touched all of him. Ran fevered hands over all of him. I must have, or I wouldn’t have remembered. But at the time it was all hot skin and rough and smooth textures. Hard, and silky soft. I wrapped my fingers around his erection. Stroked. But only for a moment. I wanted him inside me. Same as he did.
    ‘Ready?’ he asked, and I smiled, or laughed or something, because he smiled or laughed, too, and it made my insides clench again, that smiling-laughing thing, and made me realise that it wasn’t over, far from over, and he must have seen that in my face.
    I fell back on the bed. He entered me slowly, but not too slow. Sliding. Opening me up. Making me cling to him, and my clinging making him groan. In and in he slid, and when he thought he was done, I wrapped my legs around his waist and he slid in farther, his eyes widening, his mouth curling. Not smiling. Curling. He held me like that and I held him, just looking at him, for seconds. Then he began to rock. The smallest movement, just rocking, and I began to clench, and I didn’t want it to be over, so I dug my fingers into his shoulders.
    ‘You like that,’ he said, and it wasn’t a question.
    I tilted under him. ‘You like that,’ I said, and that wasn’t a question, either.
    He kissed me, his tongue sliding into my mouth, and he thrust at the same time. A tiny movement, but almost enough. Almost. I dug my fingers in farther. ‘Yes,’ I said, though he hadn’t asked me anything.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, and I knew what he meant.
    Another kiss. His tongue. The hard, hot thickness of him thrusting. And ‘Yes,’ I said again. And ‘Yes,’ this time the words a hiss of pleasure as he thrust harder. ‘Now.’
    It wasn’t an order—it was a plea. He ignored it. ‘Wait,’ he said, and that was an order, his hands sliding under my behind, tilting me higher. ‘Not yet.’
    I moaned. I clung. I tensed. I could feel it and I didn’t want to resist it, though I didn’t want it to happen. ‘Not yet,’ I echoed, like a prayer.
    He kissed me again. There was sweat on his chest. His eyes were so dark, his face strained. He tasted of salt. Of heat. Of sex. I kissed him back, touching my tongue to his, and he gave a long groan. ‘Now,’ I whispered, insistent.
    ‘Now,’ he said, and pushed high into me. I started to come. He thrust again, harder. I cried out. I pushed, arched, clung, and he thrust again, harder, faster, urgent now, and when he came, he cried out, too, his chest heaving, his arms straining as he pulled me up, tight against him, so that I felt him pulsing not just inside me but against me, our skin sticking, our breath harsh, our eyes glazed but still watching, wide. Still seeing.
    Lewis
    I thought my heart might actually break out of my chest, it was hammering so much.
Sensational
. A very overused word, but that’s what it was. I told her so, when I came back from the bathroom. I don’t usually. I mean, I say all the right things, you know, but I don’t usually mean them. That makes me sound like a jerk. I’m not a jerk, but I’m careful not to give the wrong impression. I think about what I say, what I do, how it will sound. And that makes me sound manipulative, contriving, unfeeling. I’m not any of those things either, except maybe I don’t feel much, but I am—like I said, I’m careful.
    The fact is, I’m not so easily moved. You’ll say it’s hardly surprising, after what I saw in