Each kiss seems to last forever. I feel him everywhere, even in the places he's yet to explore: my chest, my stomach, even in the one place no man has ever ventured, though something tells me if things continue, it won't stay unventured for long.

He walks me back against the counter. I crash into medical equipment, sending vials of disinfectant rolling, but we never break our kiss. If anything, it hardens, laced with desire and a dash of frustration that leaves me breathless.

I want him. God, I want him – more than I've ever wanted anything. I feel it in my desperate attempts to draw him closer, but it's still not enough. None of this is enough.

I need more.

From the way he grabs the back of my neck, he needs more, too. Part of me always knew it – and maybe he did too – but tonight was the catalyst, breaking the last of his careful resolve, and now there's no going back.

My hands grab his hair, running down his neck and back and grabbing fistfuls of his t-shirt. Before tonight, our kisses were just that – kisses. Hot and rough but laced with an innocence that kept us grounded. Right now feels explosive, like two fireworks on the verge of collision; any second now, we'll implode.

If he cares, he doesn't show it. He presses against me, hard and taut beneath my weight. I do the same back, reaching for the bottom of his t-shirt before tugging it over his head. I toss it aside, leaning back to marvel at his chest, which might just be a masterpiece.

His eyes grow dark as he takes me in too. The air crackles around us, charged with electricity. I keep thinking I'm having another one of those dreams where I get a little ahead of myself, but I'm not; this is real.

He kisses me again, this time softer, but only by a margin. It's like he wants to be gentle, to savor the moments our mouths intertwine, but with every second that slips, so does his control. I know how he feels because even though I hadn't realized it before now, we're similar in more ways than one.

Without warning, he buries his mouth in my neck. I groan against him, losing myself to the hot, rough feel of his breath. My back arches, and it's like every nerve ending in my body awakens simultaneously. I can't breathe. Or I can, but not enough to function.

All I can think about is him.

His kisses grow more intense, our breaths mingling in a fevered rhythm. The sound of clattering equipment echoes around us, but I can't for the life of me care. I'll clean it tomorrow, or maybe I won't, and Coach will dock my pay, but right now, it doesn't matter. For the first time, I don't feel like I'm out of control; I know exactly what I'm doing.

My hands tangle in his hair as we kiss, my body arching towards him. The taste of him is intoxicating, and I can't get enough. As the kiss deepens, I feel his hands roaming lower, pulling me closer. I wrap my legs around him tighter, my body pulsing with need.

His hands slide down my thighs to my knees, prying them further apart. Fingertips run along the front of my thighs until they each near my waistband. His hands grab my hips, rocking me against him in waves.

Heat courses through me. I can feel him growing harder, and the knowledge that I'm driving him crazy only fuels my own need. I run my hands over his chest and shoulders, feeling the muscles ripple under his skin.

This is the furthest we've ever gone before. The furthest I've ever gone, period. I feel like I should be terrified or like part of me should want to stop before things go too far, but I couldn't if I wanted to.

"Stop me," he breathes in my ear. His voice is low and demanding. Urgent. "Now, Cassandra."

But instead, I pull him closer, needing to feel his body against mine. As his lips trail down my neck, I let out a low moan, lost in the feel of his mouth. Without a low groan, he lifts me off the counter and carries me through the door.

I cling to him tightly, my legs still wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck. He carries me to the office, pushing the door open with his shoulder without breaking our kiss. I tighten around him, kissing his neck as he sets me on the bed.

He suddenly slides on top of me, a strong silhouette in the dark. There's a small window to my right, where enough moonlight pools in to reveal the angelic lines of his cheeks. I reach out and touch him, pulling him closer until he's lying flat against me, his breath as ragged as mine.

For the next however many minutes, we're lost in a world of touching and tasting. Nico's fingers are gentle as they run across my skin, exploring the contours of my body. I arch my back, closing my eyes as I listen to the thrum of his breath. I don't want this to end. Or I do, but only if it means starting again. Then it can end as many times as we want.

My tongue moves with his, matching his pace. He always smells crisp and soft, like fresh cotton – I can never get enough of it. I keep kissing and kissing, waiting for his hands to delve further, but they don't.

Growing impatient, I take his hand and slide it between my thighs. His breath roughens simultaneously, and his back arches, rippling on top of me. I feel mine hitch as I moan against his mouth.

"Fuck," he says, and in one smooth motion, he slides off my pants and tosses them aside.

I pull him closer by the back of his neck, kissing him again. I'm nervous – it's the first time I've been half-naked around a guy, and it's scary as hell. To break the ice, I joke, "I never thought I'd lose my virginity at the gym."

The change in Nico's demeanor is immediate. He pulls back suddenly, his breathing still heavy as he tries to regain control. I sit up in the dark, feeling rejected for the second time tonight, and watch him stare down at me.

Reading his expression is impossible – it's too dark for one – but something tells me if I could see his face, it would be lined with frustration.

Maybe he hadn't known I was a virgin. Perhaps he was looking for someone more experienced.

Maybe I'm an idiot.

I get up, ready to put my clothes back on, but he grabs my waist and yanks me closer, pulling me back against his chest. "I want to," he says, his breathing still labored, "believe me, but not like this."

The tiniest lump forms in my throat; I'm glad he can't see me. "I thought you'd done this hundreds of times. Why do you care where we do it?" I'm sure he's not a virgin, so the only reason I can think of why he stopped is because of me.

"I have," he says and brushes my jaw with his thumb. "It's not that."

"Then what?" I turn in his arms until I'm facing him properly. "Do you think I see my virginity as this special flower you'll have to take care of? Because you're wrong," I say, getting defensive. "It doesn't even mean anything, so if that's what you're thinking–"

"Would you stop running your mouth for one minute and listen?" he says, and I immediately stop talking. "It does mean something–" he shifts his arms from my waist to my face, holding me steady, "–at least to me, which is why I don't want to screw it up. All I'm asking is that you don't make it any harder for me."

My heart stills; it sounds a lot like a confession. Deep down, I know he's not just talking about this – he's talking about earlier. My pride had put him in a position where he had to defend me, and as a result, a guy nearly died; I won't let it happen again. "Okay, I promise."

The tension in his shoulders eases. He pulls me down until we lie side by side, staring at each other. I've never laid with someone like this before, but it feels even more intimate than kissing. There's nowhere to look, no way to hide my face without looking like an idiot.

I'm vulnerable.

"So, when we say hundreds," I say, " how many are we actually talking?"

His mouth curls upward as he holds me, allowing me to rest on his chest. I listen to his heartbeat, a steady thump, thump that calms me. "Drop it, Cassandra."

"Fine. Tell me something about you," I say. "Something I don't know, like your favorite childhood memory." It's a cheesy question, the kind you'd find on those 50 questions to ask your partner lists, but I'm intrigued to know.

From the look on his face, it's the last question he wants to answer, but he appeases me anyway. "I was eight," he says. "My dad took me into the backyard one summer and showed me how to use a saw. After a few practices, we built this tiny little birdhouse using old wood we got at the lumber yard. It was the first thing I ever made."

I smile at the thought of eight-year-old him building birdhouses. Every time I imagine his childhood, I imagine a sad one filled with bare-knuckle boxing and a dad who let him drink; it's nice to know there are some good parts too.

"What about your mom?" I ask. "Where is she?"

He tenses, and I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have asked when he says, "Gone. Took off when I was little. Said she was going to the store and never came back."

My heart clenches. I pull my face away from his chest to look at him properly. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," he says and brings me closer again. "Tell me about yours. She's a point of contention for you."

I shrug as if it doesn't matter and then, "Nothing big. I guess I just wasn't the kind of girl she wanted, but instead of accepting that, she tried to get me to change. Only I couldn't. I'd try so hard, thinking if I just changed that she'd like me, but she didn't."

Frowning, he tucks his thumb beneath my chin and tilts my head to look at him. "For the record," he says, sounding serious, "I like you the way you are."

I smile and lean closer, allowing him to roughly kiss my forehead. If I could lie here forever, wrapped in his arms and away from the world, I'd be happy.

I'm about to pull him closer when my phone buzzes, breaking the spell. Sighing, I crawl out of bed, away from the warmth and safety of Nico, and pull out my phone. It's late as hell, so I expect it to be my mother ready to rip me to shreds, but it's not.

It's Hayden.

Alarm bells ring. I glance at Nico, certain we're about to get caught in the act, and wrack my brain for a reasonable excuse. But something tells me he already knows. He knows, and I'm in trouble. I hold the phone to my ear and pray for mercy. "Hello?"

"Hey," Hayden says, but his voice sounds muffled and far away. I strain to hear him, only able to make out bits and pieces through the crackle, but they're enough.

"What is it?" Nico says when I finally hang up. "What's wrong?"

I turn to face him, feeling as if I'm underwater. "It's Coach," I say, lowering the phone. "He's gone."

And then I burst out crying.

A/N

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