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He grins. It’s almost right. Almost West’s smile. But he’s holding something back.
“Tell me.” I put my fingertip at that worry line between his eyebrows that won’t quite go away.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I like this. I want this. But shouldn’t we be talking?”
My hands are sneaking up his back, his smooth tan skin, every bit of him familiar but different, broader, stronger, harder. “We are talking,” I say.
Because we are. What he means is that we’re not following a script.
Only, there is no script. There are no rules for this.
I don’t think we’re doing it wrong, because I don’t believe there’s any way to do it wrong or any way to do it right outside of how I feel, how he feels, how we feel between us.
All the songs are love songs. That’s what I’m learning.
All the songs are love songs, and this one is ours.
“Are you happy?” I ask. “Right now, this instant?”
He kisses the top of my shoulder. My biceps muscle. “You’re naked.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“That means fuck yes.”
“Me, too.”
He kisses the swell of my breast. Cups them both in his hands and drops his head to my cleavage. His back rises under my palms.
“Are you smelling my boobs?”
“I’m smelling you.”
“That’s a little weird.”
“Okay.” He roots his nose in there until it touches my breastbone. Kisses that spot. “I can live with weird.”
He kisses my ribs, licks down my ribcage, mouths my stomach, smells me at my navel and then between my legs. Looks up with his hands already dug under my ass, his mouth an inch from the stripe of my pubic hair, and says, “You still happy?”
He sounds like he’s teasing, but I know what he’s asking. All the guidebooks and conventional wisdom in the world say this is where I should snap.
This is the moment when I should be angry, disgusted, cold with him.
I should want vengeance.
I should rain down my vengeance upon him, and the last thing I should ever let him do is what he’s about to do right now.
But I’m swollen and aching and I need him.
When I squirm, he smiles and licks a hot line right through the middle of me.
I’m not sure I believe in vengeance.
I know I don’t believe in tit-for-tat, this-but-not-that, you-can-until-I-say-you-can’t, I-love-you-until-I-decide-I-don’t.
With West, I picked deep and then deeper. I picked all the way, hot and cold, good and bad, dark and light.
I picked West in my bed and West on his fire escape in the snow, chicken-soup West and bakery West, drug dealer West and brawler West, West in Silt and West in Putnam. I picked hand jobs and blow jobs and doggy style and missionary and sloppy oral and morning-breath kisses and nights when we’re too tired and we just hold hands and go to sleep.
