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I didn’t put shoes on, though. My feet are bare, toenails painted pink, and I want West to see my feet and think about the rest of me naked. I want him to own up to his desire again, although, seriously, how many times does he have to say it before I’ll believe it? The way he grabbed me two days ago, dragged me up his thigh … I get hot flashes just thinking about it.
I get another one now, watching West’s eyes travel up from the floor spot that I’ve obliterated, over my legs, lingering at my hips, my breasts, my lips. That look is back in his eyes, covetous.
He wants to touch me.
It’s just that neither of us seems to know how.
You would think we were both virgins, rather than an Internet naked-picture sensation and … whatever West is. Not a virgin. I’m pretty sure.
Ninety percent sure.
He sits down on the mattress. “Come here. ”
I do.
I sit right next to him, thigh touching thigh, and I want to look at his face.
I do look. For fifty minutes, I’m allowed to look. I’m not sure what else I’m allowed to do, but looking is okay.
His face is beautiful. The Christmas lights cast a glow over his skin, blue across his cheekbone, red behind his ear. His eyes, slightly narrowed, seem to glow. The word I think of is avid. Like whatever I’m about to do, he’s going to observe it, lean into it, take it and run with it.
I like being the thing he’s avid for, because that same feeling is inside my skin. The strain of not touching him, a low hum that’s always there, always something I’m pushing down, ignoring.
Only now I don’t have to.
As soon as I think it, my fingertips drift up to touch his neck. I turn my hand over and feel the rasp of his stubble against the backs of my fingers, the bumpy texture that smooths out lower down, until I find a spot where his skin is like hot satin.
Author: Robin York
“Can I do this?”
What I’m really asking is, How greedy can I be? How much will you give me?
He smiles, a little huff of breath that isn’t a laugh or a judgment, just a pleased noise. “Yeah. ”
He draws a line across my chest, above the swell of my breasts. “Above here. ”
I inhale and feel the line rise. The wake of his touch.
He strokes down my arm to my wrist. “And here. ” He rubs his thumb over my wristbone.
“There?”
“That’s where I’ll touch you. ”
“That’s it?”
He looks hard and long at my body. Every part of me that was sleeping comes awake and puts out its arms and says, Come in, come in, come in.
He taps my knee. “From here down. ”
I hide my eyes against his shoulder, wanting to grumble. He’s going to skip all the best parts. “Is there a weird, kinky reason for this that I’m not understanding?”
He puts his hand in my hair and lifts my face so I have to look at him. “It’s just … what I want. ”
His eyes are cautious, saying this. As if telling me what he wants is the scariest thing he’s done since he opened the door. It makes me certain that he hasn’t always been able to draw lines, hasn’t always set the terms.
It makes me wonder who he’s been with before, and how.
