June First

by Jennifer Hartmann

“Brant…” I keep writhing, my body pleading. “Don’t stop.” He doesn’t move right away. He just hovers over me, his warm breaths tickling my ear as his chest rises and falls against mine. Then he slowly lifts up on his elbows, his eyes hooded as he stares down at me. I blink. “What is it?” “I can’t call you that anymore.” My grip on him tightens. His words slice into me one by one, piercing my skin and bruising my heart. “It’s what you’ve always called me.” “I know.” He swallows, his gaze agonized. “That’s why I can’t.” “You don’t mean that.” “Yes, I do.” He rolls off me, landing on his back beside me on the bed. His shorts are still tented with the evidence of his arousal. “You don’t understand what this is doing to me. It’s tearing me apart.” A lump rolls down my throat, and I lean over, tentatively running a feather-light touch over his erection. “Brant, please…” Brant snatches my wrist and in a quick flash is on top of me again. The agony in his eyes shifts to something almost volatile. “I called you Junebug beneath our childhood tree house as we played with ladybugs and read storybooks,” he growls out, his voice low. Laced with warning and a tinge of self-loathing. “I called you Junebug at your first dance recital when you could hardly pronounce my name and kissed my cheek, leaving your mother’s lipstick behind.