“Yeah. I’d watch some volleyball player sex right now.” I learned about 10 minutes into meeting Katie that nearly everything she says sounds to me like a come-on. I’ve never fully decided if she was really flirting with me, or if I was just straining all my senses to imagine that she was.

There was a silence, not awkward so much as charged, and charging. Every moment that one of us didn’t laugh, didn’t change the subject, every moment that sex hung in the air, charged the space around us with sexual energy. She turned her head towards me, and as I looked over, she let out the sort of sigh one lets out when dessert is placed before them, the sort of sigh that says, “this will be nice.”

Scenes like this draw you in. Can you imagine yourself, the summer night sprawled above, heat dissipating into the stars, the rooftop views of the city, and then this: tension, friction, the tangible static electricity? I’m wondering if that almost feels better than the inevitable.

I turned further around, enough that I could wrap my arm around her back and hold her side with my hand. I pulled her around and on top of me, lifting her easily up and over my legs as our lips still worked at getting to know one another, able to anticipate and appreciate one another perfectly. As her knees slid down past my waist on either side, her skirt rode up, exposing bare thighs and the sort of near nudity that finds it home only in early summer and on downtown rooftops. She was pressing down against my cock now, rubbing herself slowly back and forth, holding herself up with her hands against my shoulders.

Almost.