Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            My head is a jumbled mess of pleasure and panic. This is—oh God. “That’s humble of you,” I manage to push out. My hips shift, trying to meet him and get more friction. Jack sees me strain, and he does nothing. I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I—

            “There’s something really humbling about having the face of your brother’s girlfriend in your head every time you come.”

            Another whimper. Mine. “I was never his.”

            “I didn’t know it. For months, I didn’t know.”

            I want to ask him what he thought of. When it started. I just say, “I was sure you hated me.”

            He laughs, a little wistful, and leans in for a kiss against my temple. “I did sometimes. For making me hate my brother, just because he was the one who got to eat you out.” His hand twists, and something in his grip changes: more points of contact, Jack parting my folds, the heel of his hand pressing against my clit. It’s even better. So much better. “Should I put a finger inside you?”

            A flush spreads up from my chest. My entire body is burning, a blend of embarrassment, heat, pleasure.

            “I don’t . . . I usually . . .”

            I feel him nod against my cheek. “No, then.”

            “But . . .” Historically, penetrative sex has done very little for me. But then so has kissing or touching, and as I sit here, trembling from Jack’s hand between my legs, I cannot help thinking that maybe there could be more to that. “Trial and error,” I say, which makes him laugh, a deep rumble in his chest.

            “You sure?”

            I nod. And then his middle finger nudges at my opening, tapping gently while his thumb strokes my clit, and I think it’s going to be a process, I think my body is going to have to work for it, but I’m wrong. He sinks inside me like a stone in water, gentle but not tentative, and it’s tight, but the friction is good. He pulls back to hold my eyes, and we stay like that, both vaguely surprised, both not quite daring to breathe. Until he kisses my mouth and hooks his finger inside me.

            I arch and contract around him. We both jolt.

            “Fuck,” he breathes out. “Here, huh?” He does it again, hitting a spot that’s somehow indecently, massively perfect. My entire body blooms with heat, thrums from the intensity of it.

            “Oh my God, Jack, you—”

            He does it some more, and I lose any ability to speak. His kisses deepen, become more aggressive, but I am too lost in the pleasure shooting up to my brain, too uncoordinated to return them in any meaningful way. He realizes it, I think, because he groans in the back of his throat, and his other hand moves between my shoulder blades and he pulls me into his chest, a soft creature he scooped up from the floor, squirming under him, melting between his fingers, utterly defenseless. “I imagined being with you like this a lot. But, Elsie, this is unreal. You are unreal.” His lips trail across my cheek. “When I get inside you, I’m going to lose my fucking mind,” he pants against the shell of my ear, like it’s too dirty to say out loud, even alone in a dark room.

            “You are inside me—”

            “You know what I mean.” He bites my lobe. His hand caresses up and down my spine, a soothing touch that’s the polar opposite of the slick mess between my legs. “Two?”

            I swallow. My thighs are starting to tremble, and a frightening thought occurs to me: I might come from this. I might actually have an orgasm. I might lose all control and a fair bit of dignity, in front of someone else. In front of this someone else.

            “Elsie? One finger okay? Or you want more?”

            I don’t know. No. Yes. I shake my head and blindly grab his arm, digging my nails into him. His biceps is an oak tree, no give to the heavy muscles, and I feel less stranded. Anchored.

            I want more of this. Of Jack. But I’m already full, bursting at the seams. “You have really big hands,” I say, and I don’t say, I like your hands. I love your hands. I watch your hands.

            “Okay.” He wets his lips against mine. We’re drawing a map together, of a place neither of us has visited. “Okay, let’s stick with one.”

            “I think . . .” I cup his cheek. Make sure my eyes are on his. “I think we should go to bed. Have sex. Real sex.”