The lake house belongs to his cousin, the bonfire belonged to everybody, and the hoodie belonged to him, right up until I got cold on purpose. That is how the night started, baby. Twelve people around a fire pit, somebody's playlist, marshmallows nobody finished, and me in a sundress that had been a great idea at sunset and a terrible one by ten. He saw me shiver. Of course he saw me shiver. He had been seeing everything I did since the burgers came off the grill.
"Take my hoodie," he said, and pulled it off over his head in that one handed way that should be illegal in three states.
I put it on and it swallowed me, sleeves past my hands, his smell all over it, and I looked up at him through the firelight in his clothes and watched the whole bonfire stop existing for him. A girl next door knows what a borrowed hoodie means. It means she is his for the rest of the night and everybody around that fire knows it too.
We drifted. That is the only word for it. First to the dock for cocoa nobody drank, the string lights shaking on the black water, his hand finding mine inside the big front pocket of his own hoodie like a secret handshake. Then the blanket from his truck, spread on the dock boards far enough from the fire that the voices went soft and far away. He kissed me first like a boy who had been planning it since summer started, slow and careful, and I kissed him back like the girl who had picked the sundress for exactly this dock.
I climbed into his lap on that blanket with the hoodie still on and nothing under it but me, and I felt him harden under me while our mouths were still busy. His hands slid up under the hoodie, over my bare ribs, my breasts, learning me by touch in the dark, and I rocked against him through his jeans until he was breathing like the dock was moving. "Quinn," he said into my neck, "tell me this is really happening."
"Take my shorts off and find out," I told him.
He laid me back on the blanket and pulled my shorts and panties down in one motion, spread my legs under the string lights, and put his mouth on me with the lake going black and quiet around us. He licked me slow, two fingers sliding in and out of me while the water slapped the dock posts in a rhythm I will hear in my sleep now, and I came with my fists in his hoodie sleeves and his name going up into the dark like a secret the fire did not get to hear. Then I sat up, pushed him back on the blanket, and took him out of his jeans, stroking him while I kissed him, before I swung my leg over and sank down onto his cock with the hoodie bunched around my waist. I rode him facing the water at first, slow rolls, feeling every inch, then turned my head and rode him looking back at the fire, at the whole innocent party fifty yards away, which made me squeeze him so hard he had to bite his own knuckle. He came inside me holding my hips under his hoodie, and we laid there tangled in it afterward, my head on his chest, the fire going to embers.
He never got the hoodie back. I am wearing it right now, writing this. Some thefts are just announcements.
So tell me, baby. Is there a girl whose hoodie you would hand over in a heartbeat, the one you have been watching all summer waiting for one cold night and one honest minute? I cannot give you her, but I can be her for a night, the laugh, the dock, the borrowed hoodie and everything under it. Find me on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute. If you liked this one, read about the kiss that took over a whole night. Then call me, and tell me what your hoodie smells like. I will tell you what I am wearing under it.