Teen Sex | Drunk

Maya sat on a washing machine, swinging her legs, her head feeling like it was packed with cotton candy. Across from her, holding a red plastic cup like it was a holy relic, was Sam. They had spent three years being "just friends"—the kind of friends who shared notes and made fun of each other's haircuts.

"Right. Physics." Sam took a step closer. The music from upstairs—some bass-heavy anthem they’d all forget by next summer—thumped through the floorboards. "Maya, I think I’m going to do something stupid." "Like what? Stating the obvious?" drunk teen sex

When he kissed her, it tasted like salt and bad decisions and the terrifying, beautiful realization that Monday morning was going to be very, very complicated. But for now, with the bass shaking the walls and the watermelon vodka humming in their veins, they were the only two people who existed. Maya sat on a washing machine, swinging her

Maya reached out, her hands finding the collar of his hoodie. The world was spinning, but Sam was the anchor. "You’re late," she breathed. "I’ve been waiting since ninth-grade biology." "Right

Maya’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in her chest. The buzz didn't disappear, but it shifted, turning from dizzy to electric. "It was a fern, Sam. And it’s a very good listener."

The air in Leo’s basement smelled like cheap watermelon vodka and damp concrete, a scent that would forever be the fragrance of seventeen.