Ellie is Cool Now

Chapter 30

Halfway up the stairs, Mark turns, stepping back to the one I'm balancing on and leaning in. His lips tug at a smile that he doesn't unleash as his finger hooks my chin, drawing my mouth in line with his. He presses his mouth to mine. My lips open. His tongue searches, tapping teeth, tickling, tasting. I inhale his breath. My body rises to his, chest to chest, hips to hips, but he backs away as soon as we touch.

He scales the next few stairs while I stand there staring at his ass in jeans.

It's been roughly two years since I've had sex. The last time was with a guy who worked for another show on the network. He wore baseball caps and smelled good in the morning, like soap and aftershave. We'd pass in the office, share banter by the microwave in the break room. He was nice, and it felt good, but there were never any fireworks.

It was easy to let it fizzle when it never really sparked.

My lips tingle with the leftover heat from Mark's kiss. Sixth-grade Ellie, the one who fell in puppy love with Mark after he gave his oral report to the class and then spent years ignoring him from afar, would lose her shit if she knew she'd one day end up here. I went years thinking — fearing — whatever it was that people felt in movies, or my friends felt with their significant others, was just not for me.

But the attraction I feel right now in this beige townhouse in Stonybrook, Ohio, with the guy I was so into in high school, who I was sure didn't know I existed, who I wanted to pretend didn't exist for fear of being rejected — none of this is left over from Miscellaneous Ellie's daydreams.

This is not a dream.

This is real.

When I walk up those stairs, I'm going to have sex with Mark Wright.

I want to have sex with Mark Wright.

I get to have sex with Mark Wright.

And I guess now he gets to have sex with me.

I step onto the landing, winding my arms around Mark's waist from behind. His hand covers mine. His fingertips are soft, smooth. I turn him to face me, making eye contact briefly before pulling him in for another long, deep, toe-curling kiss. He winces against me, even as his hands grope at my waist, pulling me closer.

"I'm sorry," I say, pulling back from his mouth.

"It's worth it," he says.

I look into his eyes, over his jaw. I press my lips lightly to where it's starting to bruise. "I like you a little roughed up."

This time, when I kiss him, he opens his mouth for me, and a moan that's not from pain rises in his throat. My hands search down the hard line of muscle on his back and tuck into his jeans. He tightens his grip on my waist, rumpling my shirt, sliding over my ass, winding back to the hem of my shirt and touching the skin beneath.

I back him into his bedroom before pulling away.

His lips are swollen from kissing, his jaw is dark from bruising, his eyes are shiny, dilated like he's drunk on me, and it's the hottest thing I've ever seen. Behind him, the bed sits, bare to the bone.

She took the sheets, bedding, and one of the lamps on the bedside table.

Jesus.

Mark follows my eyes, turning around to face the bed. For a second, I'm glad I can't see his face, because I want to give him the space to feel whatever it is this is going to make him feel. He reaches out his hand behind him for me to take.