Maybe it’s his admission that in some sense, he’s as inexperienced in this as I am, but it makes me brave enough to meet his eyes and tell him the truth.
“That helps to hear.” I toy with his hair at the nape of his neck, searching for the words I want. “Because . . . it’s new for me, too. Because I don’t have . . . I haven’t done . . . this . . . before.”
His brow furrows. “Haven’t done what?”
I stare at him, wishing it didn’t feel so vulnerable, that it didn’t feel so weighty, so exposed.
And yet, maybe I can love that weight, that exposure I feel as I think about seeing him, letting him see me. All of me.
Sensing my struggle, he tips his head, cupping my face, gentling my cheek with his thumb. “What is it, honey?”
“I haven’t touched someone the way we touch,” I tell him. “Haven’t kissed them the way we kiss. Before you, I’d never done anything like what we did after paintball, like what we’ve been doing the past few weeks.”
His eyes widen. “Kate. Are you telling me—”
“I’m inexperienced,” I blurt. “Demisexuality and one-night stands don’t exactly vibe, and traveling constantly for work doesn’t lend itself to long-term, emotionally grounded physical intimacy. Before I knew how I worked, I tried some stuff, but I always stopped things pretty early on. It never felt right . . . until you.”
He’s staring at me, mouth agape, then his mouth snaps shut, his jaw jumps. I think maybe, just possibly, Christopher’s a little upset. “Kate. After paintball . . . I threw you over my shoulder and humped you like an animal against a bathroom wall.”
“Technically, it was a bathroom door.”
“I tore off your underwear in the kitchen,” he groans, digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
“They were falling apart anyway.”
“Katerina,” he warns. His hands drop from his face and his eyes meet mine, dark and troubled. “I wish I’d known.”
“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I can’t explain how incredible it felt, how good it felt, after so long, being so frustrated and misunderstood by too many people, to be with you and for it to feel right.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “That night after paintball just . . . happened. Same with the kitchen. Every moment since then, it’s felt so right. And while I wish I could have found a way to tell you everything before this moment, you and I are messy people, Christopher. We don’t do things the easy way, and we don’t take the direct path. I’m here now, and I’m telling you. Please don’t hold that against me.”
He swallows thickly, his hand curling around my jaw. “I would never, Kate. I just . . . I could have hurt you, upset you—”
“But you didn’t,” I remind him, nuzzling my cheek into his palm. “You asked, and I answered, and you listened. It was perfect. And now I’m nervous that it won’t be perfect again, because we have this between us.”
“Honey.” He stares down at me with such absolute tenderness, such naked longing. “Nothing’s coming between us anymore. It’s just you and me.” His lips brush my cheek, gentle as a whisper. “That’s all that matters.”
I peer up at him, naked though I’m clothed, free-falling even though I’m held tight. “Promise?”
He lifts his pinkie. I lift mine and hook it around his. And just like our childhood ritual, he kisses his thumb, I kiss mine. When our thumbs meet, soft, slow, like a tender, trusting kiss, his mouth meets mine, too, as he whispers, “Promise.”
When we pull away, his eyes search mine. A sweet smile lifts his mouth.
“What is it?” I ask.
The smile deepens. “That night, after paintball, was that the first orgasm someone else gave you? The first—”
“Ugh!” I slug his shoulder, making him laugh as he leans in and kisses me harder. “The ‘specialness’ of ‘firsts,’ the notion of virginity, are patriarchal constructs, Christopher Petruchio. You are taking nothing first from me, you are not claiming me. I am not your property.”
“You’re right,” he says, hoisting me higher in his arms and turning us onto the bed so I’m pinned beneath him.
“As you throw me around like a bag of bagels.”
“Thankfully, I’ve never thrown bagels around on my bed or harbored fantasies about bagels like I’m harboring for you.”
A smile sneaks out of me in spite of myself. “Please. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
His expression turns serious as he brushes away the fine hairs from my face. “My satisfaction at your history, it isn’t what you think, Kate.”
“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow.
“No,” he says, pressing a hot, wet kiss to my throat. “I’m just deeply aware there are many selfish at worst, mediocre at best, lovers out there, and you, Katerina Wilmot, deserve nothing but the best. Which is why I’m so satisfied. Because I am a lot of questionable things, but a selfish, mediocre lover is not one of them.”
Being reminded again of his vast experience feels like whiplash. I shrink back in his arms. “Maybe this is a terrible idea.”
He freezes over me. “Why?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Every time you’ve touched me says otherwise,” he murmurs, easing his hand along my shirt, rucking it up toward my belly.
“Really?” I ask, biting my lip when his hand splays across my bare skin, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my leggings.
“God, yes. You don’t need dozens of partners to know how to be a good lover, Kate,” he says roughly. “You just need to listen and learn, to trust and talk and try. You’ve done all of that. You’ve been an incredible lover to me.”
I blush hot and fast. “You’re not just saying that?”
“No.” He teases his hand up my ribs, his knuckles grazing the edge of my breast. “I’m not.”
Christopher searches my eyes as I look at him, my body tense with worry, my mind spinning in countless negative fantasies of how I might mess this up with him.
Slowly, he eases up on his elbow, then peers past me toward what I recognize is his bathroom, dark subway tiles winking against the faint glow of a nightlight. I catch the edge of a big soaker tub, the silhouette of unlit votive candles scattered across its edge.
“Do you like baths?” he asks.
I glance his way, my heart racing. A bath sounds heavenly. I got so hyperfixated on my editing that I didn’t have time to shower when I realized I was running wildly late for my parents’ house and Sunday dinner. Soaking in sudsy water, scrubbing my hair, relaxing until my limbs are loose and heavy, sounds perfect. “I love baths.”
“Then I’ll draw you a bath. Get you a glass of wine if you want, let you relax.”
“A bath and a glass of wine sounds nice,” I tell him.
He presses a soft kiss to my temple. “Good.”
My eyes slip shut as I drop my head into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “That I’m so nervous. That I’m making us slow this down.”
He pulls back and cups my face, holding my eyes. “I never want you to say that to me again, Kate. We take whatever time we need. There’s no slow or fast. There’s what’s right for us.”
“You don’t . . . mind that? You won’t need—”
“I need you. However I can have you.” I must look skeptical, because he says, “I told you, I’ve gone the past six weeks without it, and I’ll go as long as you need me to.” He stares at me intently, stroking my cheek with his knuckles. “I got tested last week, so you know. My results were negative for STIs.”
“I haven’t had any partners since my last checkup,” I tell him. “I was negative, too.”
“Birth control?” he asks. “We can use condoms.”
“I got the shot this week,” I tell him, blushing when he smiles, satisfied that I was clearly planning ahead, like him. “I’m set for three months. I have a reminder in my calendar for when I need to get my next one.”
“We can still use condoms,” he says quietly. “Whatever you want—”
I shake my head. “I don’t need them.”
Silence holds between us as he stares down at me, his hands caressing my skin, calming my nerves, then he eases back from the bed and lifts me up with him, until we’re both standing, our arms around each other.