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“You know. A flat, soft surface with sheets and blankets, where people get naked and do naughty, filthy things to each other.”
“Naughty?” And filthy? A low, hot clench between my legs is followed by a sudden rush of heat.
“Do you prefer nice?”
“I prefer you.”
I stand and stretch out my hand to him and he joins me, leg to leg, hip to hip, belly to belly, then mouths on each other as I walk him backwards to my bedroom. His hips move with fluidity and confidence, a predictor of what’s about to happen.
Naked. We’re about to be naked, Will’s going to be between my legs, and I’m being kissed so hard right now that my hair’s on fire. Breasts, too.
And I really need a firehose down below.
Hose. Will. Will’s penis.
“What are you thinking?” he asks suddenly.
“Women ask men that question. Not the other way around.”
“I’m asking you. You seem distracted. I don’t want you distracted during sex. So–”
“I was thinking about your firehose.”
“First it’s an eggplant, now it’s a firehose? Let’s get back to expectations management, Mallory.”
I start laughing as he strips out of his shirt like a guy in a naughty soda commercial. It’s as if time runs in slow motion and a spritzer machine is on standby in the wings.
Only it’s not Will who is wet.
My fingers know what to do, immediately reaching for his bare chest, palms going flat right on his breast bone. His eyes catch mine. I feel him inhale, then slowly let out his breath, the warm air making me lean in.
We have thousands of ways to touch someone. The permutations are endless. For instance, in this moment, Will bends over me, his hands going to my shirt, undoing the buttons one by one as if he’s in sync with my heartbeat. Fast, nimble movements leave my skin chilled by the sudden bareness, his chest brushing against mine as he bends down to kiss me while sliding my shirt off my shoulders, down my elbows, my hands forgotten until I remember they exist, his tongue teasing my teeth as I try to remember how to use the rest of my body.
Miraculously, I drop my shirt as my arms band around his waist, head tipped up to take him in.
Reaching the line between your body and someone else’s is like crossing an international border, but wordlessly. All the questions and answers are in the form of kisses and caresses, moans and movements.
Will unhooks my lace bra with a quick flick, the cups loosening with a maddening slack that makes my nipples even harder, begging for his warmth, wanting to be cupped by the very same hands that seem to read my mind. Before I can take a breath between kisses, he dips his head down and sucks one nipple into his holy mouth, making me let out a sound I’ve never made before.
“Will,” I gasp, his name so familiar yet so foreign, all four hands between us removing socially required body coverings that serve as nothing more than obstacles between us. Quickly, we’re both naked, and Will stops.
He stares.
I stare back.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, so much emotion in those syllables, earnest and sensual at the same time. His hair is in disarray, dark waves criss-crossing like they’ve lost direction. Long eyelashes frame intelligent, alert eyes. Appreciative eyes. Eyes that are hot with want to take in every inch of me.
I let him.
I let him look at me.
And I enjoy it.
The first time you sleep with someone new, there aren’t just the boundaries between their body and yours. The gaze has boundaries, too. You know exactly what I mean. Stare at someone a little too long–or at the wrong spot on their body–and you quickly learn that invisible lines surround all of us.
Perimeters matter when it comes to defining ourselves in relation to others, even if they appear on no survey map.
“Will,” I say again, sitting up to touch him, being the object of his look no longer enough. The whisper of thick hair, spread across his chest with just the right calibration, makes my palm alight with fire. My nipples graze his ribs as he kisses me, a rich, full kiss that really deserves its own word.
