The penthouse smells incredible, like garlic and herbs and something rich and savory. He leads me to the kitchen where a pot is simmering on the stove. My mouth is watering by the time we get to it. "What are you making?" I ask.
"Risotto. My grandmother's recipe." He stirs the pot, then turns to face me. "I wanted tonight to be special."
The way he says it—the weight behind the words—makes my pulse quicken. "It already is."
We eat at the small table by the windows, the city lights twinkling below us. The risotto is perfect—creamy and rich, with just the right amount of parmesan. Which is to say, a lot of parmesan. I’m big into cheese.
We talk and laugh and drink wine, and the whole time I'm aware of the tension building between us. The way his eyes linger on my mouth. The way my skin feels too warm every time he touches my hand. When we finish eating, he stands and offers me his hand. "Come here."
I take it, and he pulls me to the couch. We sit close, his arm around my shoulders, my head resting against his chest. For a while, we just sit there in comfortable silence, listening to the soft music playing from his speaker. Then he tilts my chin up and kisses me.
It starts slow—tender and exploratory, like we have all the time in the world. But then his hand slides into my hair, and I shift closer, and suddenly the kiss deepens. His tongue slides against mine, and I make a small sound in the back of my throat that seems to undo him.
"Julie," he murmurs against my lips. "I want you so much."
"Then have me," I whisper.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and intense. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He stands and pulls me up with him, leading me down the hall to his bedroom. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. We undress each other slowly. When we're finally skin to skin, he lays me down on the bed and covers my body with his.
"You're lovely," he murmurs, his mouth trailing down my neck.
I run my hands over his back, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the warmth of his skin. He moves with purpose, kissing here, touching there, like he's following a map he's memorized. By the time he reaches for the condom, I’m very confident that he’s had a lot of sex before tonight. When he enters me, we both gasp. He moves slowly at first, his forehead pressed against mine, his eyes locked on my face.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yeah."
He smiles and kisses me, and then we're moving together. It’s nice, a solid five out of ten, actually, which for me is like a twelve. But it isn’t the toe-curling, mind-melting, sweat-inducing fuck-a-thon I’ve always secretly wanted. He’s good in bed though, so it’s not him. It’s me and the fact that I can't get out of my head. I never, ever come the first time I have sex with a man. In fact, only two have ever gotten me there at all, and in both situations we were nearly a year into dating.
He shifts angles, and I make a sound that seems to encourage him. He moves faster, more focused now, chasing something. I watch his face, the concentration there, the way his jaw tightens. When I feel him getting close, I do what I always do. I arch my back, flutter my inner muscles around him, let out a breathy sigh of his name. It feels good, but it isn't mind blowing. Thank God I knew better than to expect that.
He buries his face in my neck and groans as he finishes, holding me tight. We lie tangled together, our breathing slowly returning to normal. He traces lazy patterns on my shoulder, and I press a kiss to his chest. He gets up and disposes of the condom and I go to the bathroom when he comes back.
Afterwards, we get back into bed, still naked, and he pulls me into his arms. It's better than the sex because it gives me a feeling of connection. This is the highlight for me, absolutely. Westay like that for a long time, just holding each other. Eventually, he shifts so he can look at me.
"I need to tell you something," he says.
Oh no. Is this a nice fuck, see you later thing? "Um. Okay."
"I really am keeping you." He says it with such certainty, such conviction, that it takes my breath away. "I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other for a few weeks. But I don't care. You're what I need, Julie. No one else came close."
My throat tightens. "Asher?—"
"I mean it." He cups my face in his hands. "I know what I want."
I hug him back in a kind of shock. I've never had anyone want me as much as he does. It's kind of intoxicating.
He locks in and commits. He brings me coffee in the morning, texts me limericks that are so bad I know he’s writing them himself, and tells me all the things he’s going to do with me. Weekends, summers, trips he wants to take me on, all before we’ve even been together a month.
He meets my mother at brunch one weekend when she's between cruises and says the exact right thing about her lemon pancakes. She seems wary but cautiously accepting of him. When pressed, she confirms that he doesn't remind her of my father. That's almost an endorsement. I take it.
Jamie has become more hesitant about him as time has gone on. But when I’ve asked her to tell me what’s changed, she can't give me a reason why other than to say that she always worries about me. I think I've just spent so many years not getting attached to men that now that I am, it seems too much, too soon.
Asher and I don’t fight. We barely even disagree. He’s good at making it feel easy, like the hard parts of life don’t apply if we’re together. He gives me a key to his place long before any sane person would. He remembers things no one else does.
