Page 88 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

But I did it anyway, settling across his thighs with my knees bracketing his hips.

Kit’s hands immediately found my back, sliding up under my hoodie to map the curve of my spine with warm, firm fingers. We broke apart so he could ask, “Is this okay?” and I gasped a “yes” against his mouth before he swallowed the sound.

His hands explored every inch they could reach—the plane of my shoulder blades, the dip of my lower back, the sensitive spot just behind my ribs that made me arch against him. When his thumb brushed the strip of skin just above my jeans, I made a sound I’d never heard myself make before.

Kit groaned, pulling away abruptly, breathing hard. He rested his forehead against mine for a moment, eyes squeezed shut.

“We probably need to stop,” he said roughly, “before I get too excited again.”

Then he gave me another small kiss, quick and sweet, before gently lifting me off his lap and reaching over to grab my tea for me.

I sat there in stunned silence, trying to process the sudden shift from heated kissing to polite tea service. My body still hummed from his touch, still wanted more, but Kit now acted like nothing had happened.

Kit must have thought I didn’t want to do anything more than kiss. Was I giving off that vibe? Acting too awkward? Was I meant to initiate it? Sex?

Conceptually, I got it. Mechanically, I’d done it a few times. But the actual navigation of wanting it and showing I wanted it felt impossibly complicated.

I knew most people loved it. God, Rory and Flynn talked about it enough—those two were constantly trying to one-up each other, though I tried to immediately tune out when they started those sorts of conversations.

And from the fragments I’d picked up more generally, it seemed like most people our age were having very regular, enthusiastic sex with people they’d known for much less time than we had.

So Kit surely wanted to have sex, or at least… something, right? He was a healthy, thirty-two-year-old man. And he’d said I was his mate, which seemed like it should come with certain… expectations.

Kit must have sensed something shift in my mood because he was suddenly intently studying my face.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asked quietly. “I’m sorry. I was serious when I said we can take this as slow as you want.”

“No… Well, it’s not…” I mumbled, then sighed, staring at my tea.

Kit waited patiently, one hand resting on my knee in a gesture that was probably meant to be comforting but only made me more aware of him.

“I’m just…” I mumbled, heat rushing to assault my face. “I do want to. I think. I mean, I know I do. I want you to touch me. I want to… do stuff. Which doesn’t happen often for me. But… I’m scared I’ll be bad at it.”

“Bad at what?”

The innocent confusion in his voice made everything worse. I flapped my hand uselessly, trying to find words that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete disaster.

“All of it,” I finally managed. “Everything. I mean, there’s no way I’m going to be able to… you know… satisfy someone like you when I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”

Understanding dawned across Kit’s features, and he shifted closer, his hand moving to rest properly on my thigh.

“Why do you think that?” he asked softly.

“To be honest…” I started. “The few times I’ve had sex before, back at uni… I’m not sure it was good. I mean, I don’t think I was very good.”

Kit’s hand stilled on my thigh, but he didn’t say anything. Just waited.

The memories of those experiences felt distant, like they’d happened to someone else. “I guess it was mainly just… stressful. The whole time I was thinking, am I doing this right? Is she actually enjoying this or just being polite? Should I be doing something different? Faster? Slower?” What’s going to happen after this? Will it be awkward between us now? Are we going to have to do this again?

I could still remember the weight of Gemma’s expectant gaze in her tiny dorm room, the way she’d guided my hands with barely concealed impatience when I’d fumbled with her bra. The clinical efficiency of it all—the dutiful kissing, the mechanical movements, the performance anxiety that made everything feel detached and wrong. The worst always had been afterwards, lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, feeling hollow and confused. Like I’d just completed some bizarre social obligation rather than something that was supposed to be pleasurable.

I buried my face in my knee to stop the horrible memories. “Anyway, let’s just say I’m really not exactly experienced in the art of… satisfaction.”

Kit was so quiet that I finally couldn’t resist looking at him. His face was held carefully neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes.

“Felix,” he said slowly. “You know we don’t have to do anything. Not ever, if you don’t want that part.”

The words were gentle, sincere, but I had to look away again. Because I was scared I would see something in his face—it was a ridiculous thing to promise someone.