She’s panting. Quietly, I crawl into the passenger’s seat and wait for a moment. Finally, she speaks in a whisper, “Why can’t you stop screwing up my life?”
When she turns to look at me, her eyes are sparkling with uncried tears. I kiss her again, but she doesn’t push me away. I crawl on top of her, pushing the back of the seat down. It’s crampt, but we both know exactly where to go. As I push inside of her I whisper, “Because I can’t stand being away from you.”
They say that you never forget the first, and I believe them. No matter who I sleep with, or what the fuck I say about it, Brit is always something special.
What they don’t say, though, is that the first is always the best. They don’t say it, but it’s true. There’s no one on earth who feels like Brit does. I don’t even know why I look. Because when you come right down to it, Brit’s the only person I’ve ever cared about, the only person I’ll ever care about. I’m just too much of an asshole to admit it. And sometimes, I fucking hate being an asshole.