One minute I'm cheering, high-fiving my girl because I just won Flip Cup, and the next, Smirks is smirking, winking—because that's what Smirks does—but he's drunk, so he's overdoing it. The kid looks like he's having a small stroke, but I'm drunk, too, so I think it's hot.
Yeah, Smirks is hot.
"Edward is totally looking at you," James whispers. She elbows me in the side, like, hey hey hey.
Instead of elbowing her back, I playfully-too-hard push her. Like all good teenagers on a Saturday night, she's white-girl wasted, so she falls on her ass. I consider helping her up, but I'm laughing too hard.
So is everybody else.
Amid the distraction of the fallen beauty, Smirks pulls me by my elbow through the kitchen away from the party. His boy, Felix, is drinking water straight from the faucet, shit-faced, too. Edward unlocks and opens the sliding glass door, and Felix pulls away from the water.
"Where are you guys going?" he asks. He wipes his wet lips dry with the back of his hand.
I stop to answer, but Edward pulls me outside.
His backyard is the shoreline, and my hunk-of-junk is parked on the sand. Cracklin' wood has gone white, seeping smoke. We've left a mess, but this night has been too fast to care. Beer cans, plastic cups, overturned chairs, and wet towels are laid out everywhere, cluttering the beach.
Then there's the moon, and the stars, and the waves … I'm so drunk.
I lift the hood to my hoodie over my head, tighten the strings tight, and look over at Edward, smiling.
"Nothing but teeth," he says.
I notice he's taken his shirt off. "Nothing but chest!" I laugh. Then I look down at myself: sweater, swimsuit bottoms, flip flops. "Wait," I say. "Are we going swimming?"
I pull my hoodie off over my head and let it drop to the sand. Only too little too late, I notice that with my sweater went most of my top. My entire left breast is exposed.
I look over at Smirks with wide eyes.
He kisses me.
Somehow we end up in the front seat of my vehicle—foggy windows, elbows and knees, seat belt lodged in my back—the whole stereotypical deal. Thank God for bench seats.
He's smirking again, and it's so pretty, so I show him both of my boobs. He's a boy, so he loves them. We're laughing, and we're touching, and we're so fucking drunk that nothing else matters, not even the consequences.
And it's all fun and games until Edward Cullen unties my bikini bottoms.
He's between my knees, up on his. The thin material of his board shorts do nothing to hide how bad he wants me. We're not laughing anymore, but we breathe hard. My bare chest rises and falls, and my intoxicated head swims.
This is Edward.
When one side of my purple bottoms is loose, he moves to the other. His dark eyes look black in the matted-by-foggy-glass moonlight. His cheeks are warm and flushed, and his stomach muscles are tense. I watch his fingers as they pull double knots apart, and I love the way his arms flex when he leans over me.
"Is this okay?" he asks right over my ear.
His breath smells like Corona.
His hand is between us, but he's not touching me. He's loosening his shorts. Edward's knuckles brush my clit and I cry out.
"Yeah?" he asks, amused.
I nod rapidly. "Yes," I answer, practically humping his hand.
It's quick after that. We're back to kissing and touching and rolling and rocking. I get my knee stuck under the steering wheel, so he has to help me get free. He bumps his head on the roof, so I laugh. His shorts get stuck at his ankles, so I have to kind of maneuver myself to help him out. Once we're both entirely naked, we kind of switch positions. He sits straight, and I straddle his legs.
Kissing, kissing, and kissing.
Moaning, moaning, and moaning.
Then: "The gearshift is in my back."
And: "My ass is stuck to the leather."
Then: "Do we need a condom?"
I nod, of course.
"Glove compartment," I say.
He reaches forward with me on his lap. My arm accidently honks the horn.
When Edward has the condom, he can't get the little package open. He drops it—twice.
"Hurry up!" I whine.
He uses his teeth.
It glows in the dark, and when it's on him, we laugh again.
When I'm on him, we melt.
Yeah, because when you're seventeen years old and getting fucked in your pickup truck, what can possibly go wrong?