Foreheads pressed together as if fused, we panted. I closed my eyes, panicked that everything I’d ever felt for him would spill out.
When he withdrew and dropped to my side, he rolled onto his back and dragged me close in one movement. His chest still rose and fell, and I watched my hand ride up and down, curled over his heart. I slanted one leg over his and he tightened his hold, but neither of us spoke. Heart rates decelerating, limbs relaxed and languid, our echoed breathing patterns returned to normal, and the comprehension of what had just occurred presented itself.
I took stock. I’d come to his door like a panicked child, afraid of the sort of thunderstorm I’d never enjoyed but had survived dozens of. He’d invited me into his bed with no seductive propositions or wisecracks. I’d turned to face him. I’d run my fingers over the soft scruff at his jawline and then kissed him there. He’d been hard against my stomach. You ready? he’d said, and I’d nodded.
I tried to be sorry and couldn’t. What a lie that would be, and I wouldn’t tell it. Not to myself. It wasn’t just as good as I remembered. It was—impossibly—so much better.
Finally I mumbled something about the bathroom and slipped out of his arms. The night table drawer was ajar, and a condom wrapper was on top, empty. I hadn’t noticed him reach for it, but I hadn’t noticed much of anything past what he was doing to me. I plucked my T-shirt off the floor and pulled it on as I padded from his bedroom, through the kitchen, and past the living room with my disheveled sheets on the sofa as I’d left them.
I washed up in the dark by the light of the lone porthole window over the shower, unable to look myself in the eye just yet. What now? Back to the sofa? I had no idea of the time, but there’d been no hint of dawn through the windows as I passed them. The rain was still falling, quietly tapping against the roof and windowpanes, but the lightning strikes had abated and the menacing winds had calmed like exhausted toddlers after a tantrum.
Boyce was just outside the bathroom when I opened the door. He caught my hand as I passed and pulled me close, tipping my face up and kissing me tenderly, slowly—nothing like our turbulent coming together moments ago. By the time he released me, I was light-headed. I turned and walked to the sofa, sitting and then curling under the sheet, my mind more muddled than ever. What did it mean? Anything? What had I done?
Minutes later, he exited the bathroom, walked directly to the sofa and scooped me up, sheet and all.
“We’re not done yet,” he said, and my heart launched into a staccato beat as he carried me back to his bed.
This time everything was slow motion. He drew me astride his body, his hands enveloping my face carefully before sliding into my hair and pulling me down for long, deep kisses. Once he was sure of me, his fingers wandered down my arms and back, caressing over my shoulders, along the center of my back to finally duck beneath my shirt and set fire to my skin. His kisses gentle but insistent, he gripped my hips and pressed me against the hard length between my legs.
This time I was aware when he reached into the drawer. Aware when he tore open the wrapper behind my back and tugged me up on my knees while he rolled it on before pressing me back down, hands at my hips, impaling me, filling me. His face disappeared beneath my shirt as I came down and he rocked up. I felt but couldn’t see him tug a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue round and round the tip until I moaned, then sucking so forcefully it was almost painful before alternating to the other, his hand moving to cover the first sensitive, wet nub, pressing his palm to my breast like a blessing.
This time when I began to come, he flipped me onto my back and pressed deep, one hand between us, thumb and forefinger stroking lightly—once, twice, three times—until I bucked and screamed with the unbearable pleasure, cresting and shuddering until I thought it would never end. Before the tremors subsided, he withdrew and surged home, setting me off once more when he came, my name in his mouth before he kissed me like it was the last time.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
I woke with a start and sat up, heart hammering. Full daylight streamed through the window across the room as if the thunderstorm had been a hallucination. I’m late.
No—it was Sunday. I heaved a relieved sigh and then listened for Boyce’s presence outside the bedroom, but every sound I detected originated outside—the squawk of seagulls scavenging a few blocks from the beach, the hum of a car passing on the street, the low horn of a tanker or cruise ship out in the gulf. I was alone.
I pulled the sheet back, revealing my bare legs below the worn T-shirt twisted around my torso. Scooting to the edge of the bed, I realized I was a bit sore. It had been five months since I’d broken up with Mitchell. Returning to my comfort zone after the breakup, I’d thrown my full concentration into academics and earned a 4.0 in my final, most challenging semester. I’d had little to no social life outside the Chi-O house. Attending compulsory spring events with guys who were friends, I declined any actual dates and sidestepped hookups, preferring the use of my hand and my imagination as a sexual partner. No misunderstandings, no complications.
Little wonder I’d responded so forcefully to Boyce’s skillful attention last night. Oh my stars. I’d never, ever nearly cried during sex… except for the first time—also with Boyce—but that was due to pain, not ecstasy. I’d always thought It hurts so good was a silly expression, a fictional ideal.
Wrong.
My shorts were folded on the night table, next to a note scribbled on the back of a list of auto parts.
Gone fishin’ (always wanted to write that to somebody). Back around 11. Brit is bringing her truck by late morning but she’s supposed to text me first so she shouldn’t bother you. BTW - she says her aunt needs a front desk person at the inn on Cotter. She told her about you. Sounded like you could show up and it’s yours, if you’re interested.
B.
Boyce had left me a note to tell me where he was and when he’d be back… but Brittney Loper was bringing her truck by, despite her supposed lack of influence over his Sundays. I fought back the surge of jealousy that made my eyes burn. Boyce wasn’t mine. We’d slept together last night, but that didn’t mean he belonged to me.
Brit had been friendly yesterday and had possibly arranged for me to land a job at an inn. After my initial job-search failure, I wasn’t willing to look that gift horse in the mouth.
I grabbed my shorts and the note and went to shower. When I got out there were two messages and a pic on my phone—from Mitchell. I tapped Edit and my thumb hovered over Delete, but I couldn’t do it. My curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to know what the hell he had to say.