Her first orgasm should have been as perfect as she is. There should have been candlelight and music and just the two of us. Now she’s going to have this horrible memory for the rest of her life, all because I’m a jealous prick. I deserve to feel like this. Like I’m dying a slow, torturous death. I deserve to feel like my bones are made of razor wire.
I followed her home after school, of course.
She took the bus, thanks to her car still sitting half-finished in the garage. One more part. I needone more partto repair her brakes and it’s the hardest to find. The most expensive. I’m going to scour the county tonight and have it ready for tomorrow morning.
Maybe she’ll forgive me, then?
In order to finish the repairs, I’ll have to leave her front yard, but my body weighs a million pounds. I’m made of concrete. Sorrow presses me down into the earth—as well as shame. Because I can’t stop obsessing about how her pussy felt against my fingertips. When I was in middle school, before I ever laid eyes on Ayla, I had experiences with a few older women who came into the garage and hit on me, perhaps not realizing how young I was. None of them were anywhere near as smooth and ripe as Ayla. As wet and sweet and tight. I expected her to be perfect, I didn’t know she would blow my fucking mind.
Made for me.
I’m salivating just knowing she is inside that house.
The beast inside of me wants to rip the door off its hinges, throw her down on the ground and lick her between the legs until she accepts my apology. My muscles seethe, screaming at me to follow that instinct. But although she might forgive me while in the throes of pleasure, I think she would still be pissed at me afterward.
No, I must do better.
She’s worthy of more.
With my heart bleeding in my chest, I stumble to my feet, realizing dazedly that night has fallen since I started keeping vigil in her front yard. I get into my truck and force myself to turn the key in the ignition, telling myself I’ll be back. I’ll be back.
The farther I get from her house, the more my insides shrink in on themselves. I feel dizzy and dehydrated while driving through town on my way to the garage…
And that’s when I see it.
Parked just off the main avenue is a car nearly identical to Ayla’s mother’s Volvo. A newer model by one year, maybe two. Close enough to have the part I need. The one I’ll use to repair her prized possession and earn her forgiveness. Problem is, I’d have to steal the part.
If I don’t, it could take me weeks to track one down.
Thousands of dollars I don’t have.
No. I can’t wait. I need my Ayla back or I’m going to die from the pain of her disapproval.
With determination blazing in my gut, I go to collect my toolbox.
* * *
I’ve never bought roses in my goddamn life, but this morning I purchased every bouquet they had in the supermarket. After repairing Ayla’s car, I drive it out to her house and park it in the driveway, just like I did when she turned sixteen, only this time I couldn’t find the giant bow. Not on short notice. The roses will have to do.
I spend the hours before sunrise cutting the flowers free of their cellophane wrappers and strewing them everywhere. On top of the car, inside the car, on the pathway in front of her house, the front doorstep, in the mailbox. I’m so intent on making the scene perfect for her, I don’t realize the thorns are tearing my hands to shreds the entire time. Not until I’m finished and it’s almost time for Ayla to leave for school.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, looking down at my clothes and finding them covered in blood. “There’s no time to go home…”
The front door of the house opens. My chest seizes.
There’s Ayla. She backs out through the opening and locks the door, not seeing me right away. My dick begins to stiffen at the sight of her, even faster than usual now that I know how juicy she gets when I finger her. How she sounds moaning from pleasure. And she’s wearing my favorite skirt today, on top of everything else. That red denim one with the zipper in back that runs right between her ass cheeks. How many times have I dreamed about lowering that zipper and letting the skirt fall to the ground? Thousands? Millions?
It's warmer than usual out today, so she is wearing a white satin tank top today with thin straps. I’ve never seen it before. It must be new. Black lace outlines her tits in a tempting triangle. And if she thinks she’s going anywhere dressed like that, she’s wrong.
My blood heats, throat going dry.
I have visions of dragging her back into the house and forcing her to change, but somehow, I manage to restrain myself.
Calm down.
You want her to forgive you, not hate you even more.
Ayla turns around at the top of her stoop and gasps, stopping short. Her hands lift to her mouth to cover it, her eyes furiously scanning the yard. I wonder what it looks like from her perspective, hundreds of roses covering her front lawn and footpath. Maybe it comes across psychotic, but that can’t be helped. That’s what I am when it comes to her.