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SUMMER | CONRAD (17), BELLY (15)
Hallucinations don’t run in the family, but he’s got his doubts.
They come in the form of an irate Belly awake at seven in the morning, bodily grabbing his forearm and dragging him outside. He’s still reeling from last night, and the reality of her in the early morning light is a little hazy at the edges. She’s too golden.
He digs his heels only a little bit just to watch her struggle. It’s cute, but she’s determined and he’s more and more sure that he’s not still dreaming because she pulls at him hard enough that his skin goes bloodless-white where she’s holding him.
“Belly,” he says at a normal volume. “What are you—”
She spins around. “Shh!” Her gaze tracks the empty space of the kitchen before she carefully opens the door to the pool. She whispers, “Not here.”
Conrad lets himself be dragged. Belly doesn’t take them to the beach but the deck down below. They’re far enough away from the summerhouse not to be seen or heard by anyone that he can probably ask his question again, but he waits for her instead.
It’s a balmy morning, and the humidity already makes his shirt stick to his back, all stamped with sweat. Belly, on the other hand, is wearing a sweater and a ratty pair of sunflower-patterned pajama pants, her hair braided hastily down her back. There’s a sheen of perspiration on her brow. The water’s calm, the blue of it still dark instead of a vibrant cobalt because it’s still early enough for the sun not to touch it fully.
Belly releases her grip on him and tips her glasses back onto her nose. She crosses her arms. “You’re an asshole,” Belly finally says.
With a measured slowness, Conrad asks, “What did I do?” If this is about last night—did she not want it? He should’ve asked, but didn’t he ask? Fuck, this is on him. Maybe she wasn’t comfortable saying no to him. He swallows thickly, picking at his skin. “Did you not want—”
Before he can finish his question, Belly’s eyes widen. She shortens the distance between them to cup his hands. She unravels his stiff fingers.
“Of course I wanted it,” says Belly. She bites her lip, and Conrad can tell that the bands on her braces are lilac. She sighs. “You’re an asshole, but not for”—she blushes, and her grip tightens on him—“kissing me last night.”
That swell of dread pops; Conrad deflates. “So,” he says, moving their hands so they’re interlinked like a normal couple would, “just normal asshole behavior then?”
Her nose scrunches up. She lets go of him and stomps off lean against the wood railing. There’s a familiar pout on her lips, and this is when Conrad finally chills out. This isn’t anything too serious. She’s just being Belly—annoying, melodramatic, whiny Belly.
“Do you know how long it took me to convince Mom to let me wear a bikini? Like, three whole weeks! And I had to bug Susannah about it, and Mom only said yes after Susannah talked to her,” she says, mouth twisting down, “and you ruined it!”
“I ruined it?” He crosses his arms and laughs. “Belly, I know you complain that I act like your dad, but I’m not actually gonna stop you from wearing a bikini.”
She huffs. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then explain it.” He tilts his head.
She flushes and covers her stomach with her arms. “I can’t go swimming with them on now. I have to wear my one pieces. With shorts.”
Stupidly, Conrad almost asks why when it strikes him in the middle of his brain. He remembers last night with aching clarity. Horny beyond belief and somewhere in the haze of desire and shame, he gave her so many hickeys, he can’t even say how many. He had the foresight to avoid places where her normal clothes cover, but he completely forgot about swimwear.
“It’ll be fine, Belly,” says Conrad.
They’ll heal in a few weeks. Maybe she shouldn’t even be wearing bikinis now anyway. Not in public. The thought of someone else seeing her half-naked makes him so fucking jealous, he actually feels his heart rate kick up. Then, because his mind loves to torture him, he pictures her out on the beach wearing a new two-piece, showing off all the bruises he gave her, like a warning to everyone else that she’s not to be touched.
“No, it won’t,” she complains and hikes up her sweater.
An involuntary noise escapes him. Conrad’s brain short-circuits. She’s not wearing a bra. Her puffy nipples greet him, surrounded by blooming bruises on her skin. They’re all around her chest, on her waist, on her hips. He knows, without even seeing, that there are similar marks in the shape of his mouth dotting the inside of her thighs.
Conrad steps forward and tugs the hem higher. His other hand thumbs over one nipple. She gasps and her grip on her sweater falters, but he’s holding it up. His touch moves to the purpling bruises. She’s a little sweaty, from her clothes and the early summer heat, and he feels feverish at the sight of her, the touch of her.
Without thinking, Conrad presses down on a bruise.
“Conrad,” Belly whimpers. She clenches her thighs together.
He loves her like this—malleable like clay in his hands, marked so clearly by him that he’s maybe a bad person for liking it so much.
She looks up at him, and he can practically hear her silent demand. Her mouth always looks like that to him, begging to be kissed.
Conrad refrains. His head spins. His mouth is dry. His room is that one with a clear view of the deck, but maybe someone else can see. So he pulls her sweater down to cover her.
He says, rough like gravel, “You can wear it. Your bikini.”
Belly doesn’t register his words until she shakes her head. “But we pinky promised.”
We can’t tell anyone. We can’t let anyone know.
“Yeah.” He finds his footing. “But you can wear it for me.”
Her mouth parts into a soft O. Her gaze darts from his eyes to his mouth. She’s so easy to read. “When?”
Conrad shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, like he isn’t burning up from the inside with lust. Sweat trickles down her face. He tracks it with a single-minded intensity. “Whenever you want.”
“Can I show you now?” Belly chews on her mouth.
He reaches out to pull her bottom lip from her teeth. “My room or yours?”
She smiles. “Yours.”
“All right.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and tries to quell his aching cock. “Lead the way.”
Belly’s absolutely joyous as she heads back up to the summerhouse. She keeps looking back at him, like she’s making sure he won’t disappear. He can’t help but smile at her every time. He keeps catching her eyes, but she’s so giddy that her own low-thrumming embarrassment disappears. She heads to her room to get her bikini and put it on, so Conrad sits on his swivel chair and waits. It doesn’t take long before his knob rattles slightly before she walks in.
She’s still dressed in her sweater and sweats, but there’s a bundle of red tucked in her fist. Belly locks the door and turns toward him.
Conrad’s facing her with his legs spread.
Belly looks flustered. Her voice is quiet as she asks, “Can I do it here?”
He manages the volume of his voice now that they’re back around their family, turning it low, low, lower as he asks, “You’re gonna give me a show?”
Her giggle is light.
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Okay, Belly.”
Belly sets her tiny bikini set down on his nightstand and looks a little nervous before she nods to herself, settling into her body and takes off her sweater and her pants down in two quick, successive moves. He’s been hard ever since she showed him her pretty tits a few minutes ago, and now he fucking aches.
Back on the beach, it was so dark—every moment illuminated only by moonlight. She’s a fucking wonder like this, glowing in the sun that slats in through his window. Cheeks flushed, she’s insecure about this, but he thinks she’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. With that pink spreading down to her chest. The thatch of downy hair between her legs. She’s sporting his mark everywhere. He was right. The inside of her thighs are a crime scene.
He shifts in his chair. His breathing’s gone heavy.
Belly’s hands shake only a little as she ties her top on. Two knots: one behind her back, one at the base of her neck. Then she bends down, her ass in view, and he can see her slit from this angle.
Conrad groans like he’s been punched.
She finds his gaze over her shoulder as she ties a knot on each hip. When she turns, she spreads her arms out and says, trembling, “Ta-da.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his lips.
She shifts and scans herself. “How do I look?”
He studies her. A hickey or two peek out from the edges of her top, the strings not even bothering to hide the ones on her hips. The tie she did on the bottom is loose, and it’s about to undo itself in two steps.
She looks obscene.
“Come here,” he rasps.
Belly comes between his spread legs. He manhandles her until she’s sideways, one hip at mouth-length. He undoes the loose knot and ties it again, tighter. Once he’s done, he doesn’t let her go. His hand, her spine. He leans in and sucks another bruise onto her skin. She inhales sharply, her fingers finding his shoulder and holding herself up. With his free hand, he thumbs at her nipples before dragging his touch down her stomach to the heat between her legs. Over her bikini, he rubs slow, slow circles on her clit. She shoves her palm into her mouth to stop herself from making too much noise. Smart girl.
“You look gorgeous,” he tells her.
She moans.
In a beat, he stands up. Because they’re so close, she stumbles. He holds her steady even as she steps over her own feet. He pushes up against the wall and kisses her. He fucking devours every little noise she makes.
She’s marking him up, delayed retaliation. Her nails claw at his skin, and he fucking loves this. Loves how needy she is. She opens for him, and he groans into her. He nips at her bottom lip, soothing it with his tongue. Her glasses are askew, and he feels them as he kisses her and everything about this makes his brain light up like fireworks.
She’s on the tips of her toes, trying to get his cock between her thighs, but she’s too short or he’s too tall, so he lifts her up and keeps kissing her, protecting her head with the back of his hand. Gravity works its magic, and the weight of her grinds against him. His lungs shudder. She rocks against him again and again.
They stay like that and Conrad is practically shaking from how hot this is. How he’s never wanted anyone like her. She’s sweating again, even dressed in this little bikini in an air conditioned room. Her hair’s getting unraveled, a few strands sticking to her skin. She wraps her legs tighter around him, and he can tell she’s close.
“Please,” she whines, desperate. “Conrad, please. I need—I need—”
And he knows what she wants. He wants it just as badly. His summer baby hates when her cunt’s empty. It’d be so easy, too easy, to just pull her bikini to the side, to shuck his shorts down his legs and slide into her. But he can’t. He can’t.
He has to get his fucking shit together and break up with Aubrey and he has to tell Belly that they’ve got to take it slower than this. He wants her first time to be special, and a quick fuck in his bedroom won’t do it. If he has sex with her now, he’ll have to practically gag her to keep her quiet enough, and she’d still probably wake up their brothers.
“I’m not fucking you right now, Belly,” he breathes out. Belly lets out an audible sob. His eyes go wide. He smothers her mouth with his hand and hisses, “Be quiet.”
Her eyes are teary, and he thrusts against her, mindlessly. She moans again.
“Baby, if you can’t be quiet,” he says, “I’ll stop.”
She shakes her head wildly. Her lips mouth, No, no, please, I’ll be quiet against the mound of his palm.
He doesn’t know if she can really do it, so he conducts a little experiment. Conrad tugs down her top so her tiny tits spill out. Her chest heaves. Meanly, he pinches her nipple. The moan that escapes her lips is involuntary and too fucking loud.
Before she can even blink, Conrad sets her down and steps away from her. She’s leaning against the wall, her legs shaking. Belly’s a vision like this.
“Conrad—” Her voice wobbles like she’s about to burst into tears.
He sighs, disappointed. “I told you if you were too loud, I’d stop.”
“I’m sorry.” She’s really crying now. Tears drip down her cheeks. The trauma of a ruined orgasm looks so beautiful on her. Maybe he really is a sick fuck. “I wanna come.”
“Then you’re gonna have to do it yourself,” he says firmly. “Quietly. In your own room.”
Belly’s incensed now. Wiping her face with her hands, she sniffles. With such an imperious tone, she says, “But I want you to do it.”
Conrad grabs her clothes and holds it out to her. She shakes her head and crosses her arms. Her silent rebellion. She’s acting like such a kid. He laughs even though his gut twists. He opens up the sweater and pulls it over her head.
“You’re so spoiled, princess,” he says, kneeling down to lift each foot and set it in her pajama pants. He slides them, and she’s looking at him, so mad, but a good kind of mad. One he can live with.
He undoes the knots on her hips and tugs her bikini off. Red cloth slides into his pocket. He stands and takes the ties off her top and slides that into his other pocket.
“I’m not sure those are your style,” she says bitterly.
Conrad smirks. “When your hickeys fade, I’ll give them back.” He leans in, and her frown falters as her eyes grow half-lidded. One kiss. He catches her mouth and licks at the seam of her lips, tasting her one more time. She’s not as urgently pissed off as before. “Put some ice on your hickeys.”
Then he unlocks his door and heads right into the bathroom. Belly sneaks out after him but to her own room. Conrad turns on the shower but doesn’t get in. He takes himself in hand and covers his cock with the wet spot on Belly’s bikini and jerks himself off until he comes.
When he comes out, Belly’s door is locked. No noise leaks through. Good. She’s learning.