So he texts me around midnight, just "I'm here," and my stomach does this flip because I've been thinking about him all day. I'm already in bed, white sheets, small room, just my place with the window cracked open so I can hear the city outside. I throw on a tank top but no panties, already wet just knowing he's coming up.<br><br>He knocks soft, and when I open the door he smells like cigarettes and cold air. We don't even speak at first—he just pushes me back against the wall, his mouth on mine, his hands under my tank top, rough and urgent. I can feel how hard he is through his jeans and I laugh against his mouth because I'm nervous, but he swallows the sound and keeps kissing me.<br><br>We make it to the bed somehow, and I'm trying to undo his belt but my fingers are clumsy. He helps me, then pulls my tank top over my head so I'm naked, exposed. He pauses for a second, looking at me, and I feel myself flush because the way he looks at me—like he's starving—I almost want to cover up.

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