1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I stop.
He touches my face, coming in close and looking down at me.
“What’s his name?”
“Who?”
He hovers close, his lips an inch from mine. “Your pen pal.”
His breath lingers on my lips, and I open my mouth just a little in
anticipation for him. God, he smells good.
“Misha,” I whisper.
He kisses me, his lips sinking into mine as I close my eyes.
“What was that?” he teases, nibbling my lips. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Misha,” I gasp before diving into him and brushing his tongue with
mine. I press my body into his, feeling the bulge in his jeans rubbing me.
He finally pulls away, breathless and turned on again, just like at the
drive-in.
“Thank you.” He kisses me one last time on the lips and turns around,
heading back to his truck.
What the hell?
I watch, confused again, as he starts the engine and drives away, his
taillights glowing in the darkness as he pulls out onto the street.
I know him very little, but after every encounter, I feel like I know him
less.
I didn’t see Masen all weekend. Saturday came and went. My friends and I
spent all day on the football field, orientating the incoming freshman
cheerleaders for the next school year, and Sunday I was locked in my room,
playing music, doing homework, and writing Misha.
Three letters.