The air in the small living room was thick with the scent of pine from the Christmas tree in the corner and the faint, clean smell of her mother’s floor wax, a lemony, chemical freshness that fought a losing battle against the organic smells of life. The tree itself was a monument to familial tradition, a slightly lopsided fir draped in a chaotic mix of handcrafted ornaments from elementary school years, glitter-dusted macaroni angels and faded, construction paper snowflakes, and elegant glass baubles that caught the light like captured stars. A single strand of burnt-out bulbs created a dark vein near the trunk, a small imperfection in an otherwise festive display. But beneath it all, I could smell her. Susan. A mix of vanilla from the perfume she’d dabbed behind her ears that morning and the unique, warm scent of her skin, a scent that was uniquely hers, like sun-warmed honey and fresh laundry, with a deeper, muskier note that was her alone, the scent of arousal I was coming to know so well. We were nestled together on the couch, a fortress of plush cream-colored quilt, the fabric a soft, nubby texture against my cheek, its weight a comforting pressure that made our secret world feel secure. The television blared from across the room, its cathode-ray tube humming with a low, electric thrum. Its screen painted the scene in brilliant, almost supernatural hues, the colors bleeding slightly at the edges of the curved glass, giving the skaters an ethereal, otherworldly glow. A skater in a costume of sapphire blue and glittering silver spun across the ice, her movements, a fluid blur captured by the camera and transmitted into the intimate space of the living room, the image slightly warped at the edges, like a dream viewed through water.

Her dad, a man whose hands were calloused and permanently stained with grease from a lifetime of working with engines, sat rapt in his matching tan recliner. The vinyl of the chair groaned softly as he shifted his weight, a sound of domestic wear and tear, the material cracked and worn smooth in places from years of use. His chin was jutting forward, his eyes wide, as if he were a general surveying a battlefield. He was completely lost in the spectacle, the athletic grace of the women on the ice holding him in a thrall I could only partially understand. Beside him, her mother was a portrait of domestic tranquility. Her reading glasses, with their delicate gold frames, were perched precariously on the tip of her nose as she devoured a paperback romance novel, the cover a garish illustration of a pirate with a rippling chest and a swooning woman with heaving bosoms. The soft “shush-shush” of her turning a page was the only sound she made, a gentle counterpoint to the commentator’s excited voice from the television, which rose and fell with the drama on the ice, a disembodied voice narrating a drama we were ignoring.

And then there was us. On the south wall, the couch felt like our own private world, an island in the sea of domesticity. Susan, my Sue, was spooned against me, her back pressed firmly into my chest, her soft, round bottom fitting perfectly against my groin. She was always cold, a fact I found endlessly endearing. I could feel a fine tremor running through her, a delicate shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, which was kept at a comfortable, almost stuffy, seventy-two degrees by the humming furnace in the basement. Her shiver was one of anticipation, of nervous energy, a feeling I mirrored in my own rapidly beating heart, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.

My arm was draped over her waist, hidden beneath the quilt. My hand, with a will of its own, had found its way to her breast. Through the crisp, thin cotton of her white blouse, I could feel the firm, resilient weight of it. I traced the curve of it with my thumb, feeling the subtle change in texture as I circled the area where her nipple, a tight, hard pebble of arousal, pressed against the fabric. Her pearl buttons were cool and smooth under my fingertips. I toyed with the top one, my knuckles brushing against the soft skin of her collarbone. She sighed, a soft, almost inaudible exhalation, and pressed herself back against me harder, a silent invitation that was impossible to misinterpret.

The effect on me was instantaneous and profound. My cock, already stirring from the simple pleasure of her closeness, began to swell with a mind-numbing urgency. It thickened and lengthened, pressing against the rough wool of my slacks, straining at the confines. The pressure was delicious, a sweet ache that promised release. I was emboldened by the darkness under the blanket, by the rhythmic drone of the television, by the utter absorption of her parents. They were in their own worlds, and we were in ours, a secret society of two.

With a calculated slowness that made my heart pound against my ribs like a trapped bird, I slid my arm from around her waist. I moved carefully, so as not to disturb the quilt, not to create a single suspicious ripple. My hand found the tab of my zipper. The sound of it slowly descending, each tooth releasing with a soft, metallic “click”, seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room, a tiny cascade of sound in the sea of television commentary. I held my breath, glancing at her parents. Nothing. Her dad was now leaning so far forward he was in danger of toppling out of his chair, and her mother had just reached the climax of her chapter, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.

I freed myself. The feeling was immense. My hard cock sprang from the tight prison of my trousers, standing rigid and proud against my lower abdomen. The cool air of the room was a shock against my heated, fevered skin, causing a drop of clear fluid to bead at the tip. I was completely exposed, completely vulnerable, and the thrill of it was a potent drug coursing through my veins. I had to feel her. It was no longer a want; it was a primal, desperate need, a hunger that gnawed at my insides.

I maneuvered my arm back around her, my shaft now a hot, thick bar of flesh nestled against the small of her back, separated from her skin only by the thin material of her blouse and the quilt. I could feel the delicate chain of her necklace, the one with the small silver heart I’d given her for her birthday, pressing into my sensitive skin. Then, with a gentleness that belied the raging fire within me, I shifted my hips, angling myself downward. I slid my heated, pulsing manhood between her smooth, slender thighs. The fabric of her skirt was a soft, whispering caress against my length, but it was the feel of her skin, the incredible cool softness of her inner thighs against my burning hardness, that made me gasp silently into her hair, the scent of her shampoo filling my lungs.

She must have felt it, the impossible heat and hardness of me pressed so intimately against her. Her response was not to pull away, but to melt into me. She arched her back just slightly, a subtle shift of her weight that pushed my cock higher, deeper, until the head was nestled snugly against the heat radiating from her core. Through the layers of her skirt and her panties, I could feel the warmth of her pussy, a promise of the paradise that lay just beyond those flimsy barriers.

I returned my hand to her breast, holding her tight, my palm flat against her chest, feeling the frantic, fluttering beat of her heart. It was a wild, untamed rhythm that matched my own. I was lost in a haze of sensation, the cool silk of her thigh, the heat of her core, the firm weight of her breast, the scent of her hair, the distant roar of the crowd from the television as a skater landed a triple axel, a sound that seemed to echo the tumult in my own soul.