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He’s still wearing his mask, too. “You came.”
“You left.”
He studies every inch of my face, reading me intently. Carefully.
“What about Cress?”
His eyes lift to mine. “She’s fine. Sleeping.”
“That’s not . . . all I meant.”
He’s quiet. “What about Ford?”
“Ford’s . . . fun. But I don’t take anything he says seriously. He’s a series of over-the-top gestures and sexual innuendos. Nothing behind it.”
Ethan expels his breath; it combs over my jaw.
I whisper, “Why are you here, Ethan?”
He glances over my shoulder, to all of greater Mansfield. His voice is a whisper. “I’m afraid. I want to sleep with you.”
“You have a nightlight.”
He looks at me and joins me at the rail. “There’s something I’m far more afraid of than the dark, Fin.”
The night sky glitters with stars and the trees below are silver in the moonlight. It’s as pretty as a painting, the gentle murmurings of nature more tranquil than any music.
For a brief moment, there’s the possibility of perfection. Nothing confusing, nothing saddening exists here.
I know what the rest of this night will bring.
We absorb our home quietly until Ethan shudders in the chill air.
I slide my hand over his and wait until he tangles our fingers together. I feel the drumming of our pulses as I lead him to my bedroom.
We strip. Our clothes, our underwear, make a puddle between us.
He trembles and I reach out and hook my finger around his, like earlier. That point is a conduit between us.
It roars through me—his yearning, his desire, his apprehension. Mine.
I shift my finger, just slightly, the slide of skin against skin.
We stand like this, getting used to the rippling shivers. We’re here. He and I. Two rivers rushing toward the chasm dividing us.
“Ethan,” I whisper.
“Fin?” he whispers back.
“I’m afraid too.”
He walks backwards, finger gently tugging around mine. I move with him, swallowing, and we climb into my bed.
He rolls on his side, I roll on mine, facing him. We’re quiet, the sheets around us are cool, the pillows soft. We look at each other through the shadows, like we’ve done thousands of times before.
We’re both hard, achingly, but it’s secondary. The passing moments are pleasure and hope. He splays his hand over the greenstone at my chest, close to the mattress, nearest my heart. It feels intimate, powerful, like he is imbuing the stone—me—with this moment.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
I trace my fingers over the veins in his hand.
The five points of his fingers and thumb lift off my skin and touch my cheek. His thumb is at my lips and I kiss the tip.
He looks at my mouth and rolls his thumb gently over the seam. The pillow shifts as he inches forward. I meet him halfway. Our lips barely brush. We breathe each other in, heartbeat after heartbeat.
I feel the entire house.
The pictures on our walls. Mum and Tom and Julia on the floor below. Mrs Norris scampering after a spider.
I feel the beat of us.
The press of his lips against mine. Our gasps. The urgency of our bodies colliding.
We’re frantic limbs as we kiss, rolling on top of one another, hands roaming every inch of skin. The only point of me he hasn’t touched is my Achilles, and it sings too by contrast. His fingers are careful, explorative, wonderfully firm and rhythmic where I need them to be.
There are whispers.
You’re so beautiful.
I want . . .
Can I?
There is the snap of a bottle lid, the press of my fingers, his hitching breath. His arms go around me. I slide my lubed tip over him.
His legs spread, surrendering. Our gazes meet, noses bumping. His breath and mine become a hiss and a gasp as I push inside him.
I pause, knotting my hand around his shaking one. He’s warm and tight and pulsing around me.
Are you—?
Keep going.
My eyes are rolling back. I whisper how incredible he feels, how long I’ve dreamed of being so deep inside him. He touches my hair, pushes it behind my ear. You’ve always been deep inside me.
My soul is shivering. When I move in him, I’m writing the words back. A promise: he’s just as deep in me. Literally too, sometime, I hope.
His grip tightens on my back. He lifts his head, our lips lock.
The slide of his tongue, the slide of me inside him.
He moans, bucking his hips toward my thrusts. He’s stiff again; the wet tip leaks against my stomach.
I shift.
He pulses in my hand. My fingers get slicker and slicker.
Hot grunts tickle my ear, my neck—
I quicken, and tip over the edge.
He clenches around me, throbs in my hand.
Fin, at my jaw.
The rush, water falling, merging, crashing.
We stay, pressed close, catching our breaths against each other.
I don’t want to slip out. He doesn’t want it either. We feel the loss when it happens.
I kiss him again, languidly. Dreamily. He smiles into it. He holds me tight and rolls me over. His laughter is soft at my clavicle, drifts to my armpit. He groans in awe at what we’ve just done and I find his fingers and thread them with mine. The edges of our palms touch and we shiver.
