6. America's Favorite Pastime

I walked into my room just as he was pulling his shirt over his head. If I were a cartoon, my eyes would have bulged out of my head and the Klaxon submarine horn would have sounded, "AAOOOOOGAH." His stomach was perfectly flat, abs defined, his waist narrow, with those perfect V-line indentations leading from the top of his hip and disappearing into the white band of his boxer briefs. I couldn't wait to get his jeans off.
So much for just making out.
He tossed his shirt next to my bed and caught me gaping at him.
"Is this OK? I can sleep with my shirt on if you'd like."
I closed the door behind me and hit the light switch at the same time. Luckily I could still see him with the early-morning light coming through my window. In three strides I was in front of him, backing him against the bed.
"I have a strict no-denim policy in my bed," I said as I reached for the button of his pants. He held my face between his hands, tilted my face up to his, and kissed me while I successfully managed to undo the button and zipper without any awkward fumbles, bent-back fingernails, or "Uh, a little help here?" comments. Well, that was a first.
Once I pulled his jeans to mid-thigh they fell easily to the floor. He freed his feet and kicked his pants to the side without breaking the kiss. I put my hands on his toned stomach and ran them up to his rock-hard chest. Then I gave him a forceful shove, and he was half sitting, half lying on my bed before he knew what hit him. I knelt down on the bed, straddling him. He sat up, putting his hands under my shirt, lifting it up slowly, as if he were teasing himself. I held my arms up to give him the go ahead to take it off. It landed next to his jeans.
"Wow." He said as he held me away from him, eyeing me. Shit, I didn't even have time to suck it in. I hope my boobs looked awesome to distract him from what was surely going on at my pants line. No matter what, sitting without a shirt on in your snug white shorts is never cute. I cursed myself for not thinking about unbuttoning my pants before I hopped on. Thank god for my 36D distractions. His hands slid up the middle of my back as he pulled me closer to kiss the part of my distractions that were nicely perked above my bra. (Thank you, Victoria's Secret Very Sexy push-up)
I pushed him back down on the bed and kissed him hard as his hands reached for the button on my shorts. Yes, please.
I was suddenly grateful I had changed into the black lacy cheeky panties and black push-up bra before meeting up with him. You know, just in case. I wondered if he had put thought into his white, ribbed, Calvin Klein boxer briefs. He added my shorts to our growing pile of denim and cottons.
"Wow," he said again, looking at me in just my unmentionables. Or maybe he was saying "Ow." Shit, was I crushing him??
"Wow, what?"
"Your curves are amazing. Absolutely amazing." (Sidenote: It's really hard to write about something someone said about my own body. Yes, this is awkward.) That same look returned to his eyes. The look he had on my roof when he was trying to take a mental picture of the Manhattan skyline. He wanted to freeze the image of me on top of him in his mind, for as long as it would last. I planned on doing the same thing to him later, only with my camera phone. (Yes, I'm serious.)
He pulled me down close to him, and his hands went for the claps on the back on my bra.
"Ah-ah. No sir. First base only."
"First base? What does that mean?" He looked truly confused.
Ah yes, baseball is AMERICA's favorite past time. Not the UKs. Maybe they use football (soccer) field locations to describe their sexual activities. (Making out is the sideline, you know, the one by the home team's bench. No, not the other bench. That's a whole different sexual scenario)
"You don't know the base system?"
His confused expression was adorable. Sounds like someone needed a lesson in Base Running 101. Just call me Coach Whitney.
"Well. this is first base." I kissed him again, pressing my hips against his, feeling how eager he was to round to second. He rolled me over and I ran my hands all over his perfectly sculpted stomach. His kisses were passionate and playful at the same time. Not usually words I use to describe other base-runners who have made their way to my bedroom. There was just something different about Cayden. I wish I could put my finger on what it was. Instead I put my finger in his waistband. I reluctantly pulled away from one of his kisses.
"And this is second..."