So, he lost his virginity here. Not technically, but somehow, sex with Zeke doesn't really count. Sex with Zeke is something else, not- sex. Denial, denial, he thinks. Hell yeah. But some sort of cherry was lost when he was spread on his back, dizzy and confused and Delilah just crawled on top of him.

He can smell her perfume on the sofa. She lay here, pressed against him in nothing but her hitched-up skirt. And Zeke was there, and Casey can't think too long about any of it.

He turns around and presses his face into the worn, scratchy fabric. Smells dust and that faint, flowery scent that's never been there before, and sex. He can still smell that.

The skin on his back and shoulders crawls and shudders into goosebumps, and the memory is one of those tremblingly vivid ones - Delilah's mouth on his cheek, her tongue lapping in small strokes over the cut - that merge with the present - his hips even do a little proto-thrust, a twitch, into the back of the couch - and drench him in heat - Zeke's fingers, the taste of them, sticky, tangy, bitter - make him gasp.

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