Age EighteenIf someone told me an hour ago that I would be pinned beneath Row Casablancas, partially naked and writhing against the hood of his black Mustang, I would have guessed he’d gotten himself into some kind of trouble and had resorted to drugging me and harvesting my organs to make a quick buck.

Row didn’t hate me. He didn’t love me either. I would guesstimate his feelings toward me were somewhere on the spectrum between look at this adorable little moron and shit, I forgot she existed.

I was his baby sister’s best friend. The awkward klutz who suffered from bouts of verbal diarrhea and extremely questionable fashion sense.

Fine. I didn’t suffer from the questionable fashion sense. I owned it. Sue me for celebrating my individuality.

I always figured he liked me in the same way people liked puppies—because they were cute, dumb, and adored the ground you walked on, even if you were a terrible human who peeled clementines in public places. But I digress.

Harboring a small, totally manageable crush on your best friend’s brother was a cliché. However, I was obsessed with the nineties, an era that celebrated true and tested formulas. Ergo, pining after him fit me like a tattoo choker.

In my defense, Row made it impossible for my adolescent self not to lust after him on account of him: 1) being six foot four inches of lithe, corded muscles, having floppy onyx hair, and a jawline stronger than my lifetime of New Year’s resolutions combined, and 2) having the entire bad-boy vibe down to a T—including a sports car, athletic genes, witty one-liners, a dimpled smirk, and unlaced combat boots with tight-fitting jeans stacked upon them.

To sum it up, he was a morally gray hunk who was a total red flag—my age group’s favorite color scheme. So, yes. Of course I, too, wanted to be ruined by Dylan Casablancas’s older brother. Who didn’t? Our entire high school worshipped at his altar. Fenna McGee once even made a sticker that said, I’m not saying that Row Casablancas and God are the same person—but have you ever seen them in the same room?

Point was, Row’s tongue was currently shoved so far down my throat, we were playing tonsil hockey. His ballistic missile–sized erection pressed against the buttons of my yellow plaid skirt, threatening to snap them and send them past the Milky Way. And all I could think about was how I was doing Dylan dirty.

Bile coated the back of my throat. Dylan hated it when her friends fell at her brother’s feet. She’d make gagging sounds every time someone we knew flirted with him, which made what was happening right now completely inexcusable. But I was semi-drunk, exceptionally raw, and uncharacteristically reckless. Plus…Dylan was so used to seeing Row ruining her friends like it was an Olympic sport, what was adding one more into the mix?

I was also a people pleaser, and I really wanted to please Row. So I made complimentary moaning sounds I’d learned from the Pornhub University of Fake Orgasms. This included head lolling, enthusiastic panting, and girly gasps.

Row took this as an invitation to move to second base, coiling his calloused fingers around the front of my throat and flattening me against the hood of his car. The hood still exuded heat from the engine, and I wondered if I’d sport second-degree burns tomorrow morning. My butt cheeks were squeezed together to accommodate his lean waist between my thighs, my heartbeat thrashing against my eyelids like an angry woodpecker.

We were parked on a rocky cliff overlooking the glacial-tipped Maine mountains. The ocean stretched like a tight, black sheet across the horizon. The briny scent floated into my nostrils, and goose bumps coated my arms.

It felt so good and yet so wrong, I didn’t know whether to burst into giggles, tears, or flames.

Stop this right now, Cal. Dylan is going to strangle you.

Actually, my BFF was more the type to steal my clothes and go on a killing spree. Dylan Casablancas was creative, innovative, and delightfully hilarious. I loved her so much. She deserved better than this.

Row’s hand snuck under my beige turtleneck and my yellow plaid vest, cupping my left boob as his mouth trailed along my jaw, leaving wet, hot kisses in its wake, making my spine tingle. His lips were sinful, his tousled hair as soft as silk between my greedy fingers.

Dammit, I’m only human.

We were grinding against each other, and I was in awe of how different his body was from mine. Hard to my soft. Tall to my short. Tan to my pale. He was doing everything right. The way he swirled his tongue over my sensitive spots, drawing happy whimpers from me. The way his thumb rubbed the tip of my hard nipple, making it tingly and sensitive and desperate for more, felt like some kind of dark magic.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

What a terribly un-asshole-y thing to say. Then again, Row never directed his infinite wrath at me. Probably because I was like a sister to Dylan.

There was a bonfire happening in the moorlands below the cliff where we were parked. A farewell bash for us seniors before we all scattered away to our respective colleges. Row had dropped by to pick Dylan up—he was in town for a couple weeks, visiting from his fancy culinary school in Paris—but Dylan had wanted to stick around a little longer. Meanwhile, I’d wanted to go home, eat pickled eggs, and binge-watch Riverdale.

Yet we’d ended up on the notorious Make-out Mountain, where couples went to lose their virginity, and sometimes lacy thongs, without being interrupted.

Row and I were friendly. He was always protective of me. I’d asked him to drive up to the cliff so I could take one last look at the ocean before I moved to New York. I definitely hadn’t planned on attacking his mouth with mine like a rabid raccoon when we’d both stared at the yolky sun crawling up the sky.

Yet…it had happened. It had happened, and now I was in his arms, the cold recipient of his kisses and licks and roaming hands. I froze, yet again feeling guilty about Dylan. She’d forgive me, surely. It wasn’t like he was her boyfriend.

Row ripped his mouth from my skin, staring me down through a disapproving scowl. “Are you still alive?”

“Hmm-mm.”

“Should I stop?” His fingers immediately loosened around my waist and back, and I suddenly remembered what had made me want to have sex with him in the first place.

“No!” I wrenched him closer and pressed my lips to his, doubling down on that rabid-wildlife conduct. “You…you can’t stop.” But maybe he should? My mind and my body were definitely not in sync.

“Sure I can.” His mouth moved over mine again, his voice velvet and smoke. “Consent is a real thing. Google it.” I was blushing so furiously, it was a medical miracle my head didn’t explode. His mouth grinned against mine, teeth grazing my bottom lip. “Fuck. You’re so sweet. So innocent. I want to eat you out.”

“I want to eat you out too.” Wait, what? That didn’t sound right. Having social anxiety and literally zero filters when I was nervous sucked.

“Do you, now?” I could hear the smirk in his smartass tone.

Dammit, Cal. “Not, in, like, a cannibalistic way—”

“Show me, then. Use plenty of examples. I’m a slow learner.” He growled, deepening our kiss. Our teeth brushed together, and a wave of pleasure rolled along my spine. My skin was cold, but my insides were ablaze. I pushed my palm against his groin over his black jeans. I couldn’t believe I was touching him, really touching the guy who literally made women melt into a pool of hormones just by glancing at him.

He ripped his mouth from mine, eyeballing me hard. We stared at each other, panting. I had no idea what I was doing.