Intensity

Six

I was laying in my bed at my mother’s house when Oliver Nixon showed up at eight thirty. I was dressed in my pajamas, in a pair of black spandex shorts and a Pierce the Veil t-shirt. I had my math binder on my bent knees and my textbook lying beside me, working my way through twenty problems of Geometry that I would probably never use in real life when Oliver knocked lightly on my bedroom door.

            “Decent?” Oliver asked through the door.

            “I’m decent,” I answered.

            The door opened and Oliver came in. He set his Sex Pistols backpack down on the floor next to my dresser and smiled sheepishly at me with his hands in his back pockets, like he wasn’t sure what to do or say.

            I answered the questions for him by pushing my homework aside, climbing off the bed, and walking to him. I wrapped my arms around his slender, hard waist, burying my face in his musk-scented chest.

Axe. Gotta love that stuff.

            Oliver looped his arms around me, hugging me close. He pressed his lips to the top of my head and we just stood there for a few long moments, hugging, enjoying each other’s company. Then I pulled back and smiled back up at him. My smile quickly faltered into a frown as I looked at his face. A light purple shadow sculpted his cheekbone.

            Oliver, seeing my expression, gingerly touched the cheek I had slapped with his hand. “You hit me pretty hard, Roxy.”

            I put my hands over my mouth and took a step back, horrified. “Oh my God, I am so sorry, Oliver! I did not mean to hit you that hard!”

          “It’s no big deal,” Oliver shrugged with a coaxing tone. “It doesn’t even hurt that bad. Don’t worry about it.”

            I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his cheek. It was warm and inflamed. Then I pulled away and gave him a watery smile. “Okay, Olipop. What are we going to do now?”

            Oliver gestured to the bed. “Well, I can see you were doing your homework. I brought mine, too. Wanna do some studying? My mom says I have to have at least B’s in all of my classes or else she’s shipping me off to military school. So she says, anyway.”

            “Well, I don’t want you to go to military school, so we better start that studying,” I told him, elbowing him in the stomach gently.

            Oliver caught my elbow and pulled me against him. He started to tickle me. I thrashed against him as he tickled my sides. We were both laughing as we staggered around my room, bumping into the walls, the dresser, the closet, and finally the bed.

            We fell onto my bed with him on top of me, using one of his arms to pin mine above my head and the other one to tickle my most vulnerable right side. He held my legs together with his knees, and leaned over me as he continued to torture me.

            “St-st-stop, Oli! S-stop!” I laughed uproariously. “Y-y-you’re go-onna make me p-pis-ss myself!”

            Oliver’s face was inches from mine. “Maybe that’s my point, darling.”

            “Jerk!” I said, trying to wriggle my arms free.

My sides and ribs ached from being tickled. But there was no fighting against his strength. He had me, three to one. Easily. Resistance was deemed futile, and I just lay there, laughing as he tickled me.