“I’m listening.”
He sighs, running his hands along my back. “They’re not here. The other women I’ve been with. You’re the first and only woman I’ll have in my bed, and what I did before . . .” He clenches his jaw, then sighs heavily. “It was pleasurable for what it was, I won’t deny that. It was always mutual and consensual. It passed the time, it gave me relief—albeit faint and temporary—from wanting you and telling myself I couldn’t have you, but, Kate, this, here with you, in my bed, it’s new for me.”
Maybe it’s his admission that in some sense, he’s as inexperienced in this as I am, but it makes me brave enough to meet his eyes and tell him the truth.
“That helps to hear.” I toy with his hair at the nape of his neck, searching for the words I want. “Because . . . it’s new for me, too. Because I don’t have . . . I haven’t done . . . this . . . before.”
His brow furrows. “Haven’t done what?”
I stare at him, wishing it didn’t feel so vulnerable, that it didn’t feel so weighty, so exposed.
And yet, maybe I can love that weight, that exposure I feel as I think about seeing him, letting him see me. All of me.
Sensing my struggle, he tips his head, cupping my face, gentling my cheek with his thumb. “What is it, honey?”
“I haven’t touched someone the way we touch,” I tell him. “Haven’t kissed them the way we kiss. Before you, I’d never done anything like what we did after paintball, like what we’ve been doing the past few weeks.”
His eyes widen. “Kate. Are you telling me—”
“I’m inexperienced,” I blurt. “Demisexuality and one-night stands don’t exactly vibe, and traveling constantly for work doesn’t lend itself to long-term, emotionally grounded physical intimacy. Before I knew how I worked, I tried some stuff, but I always stopped things pretty early on. It never felt right . . . until you.”
He’s staring at me, mouth agape, then his mouth snaps shut, his jaw jumps. I think maybe, just possibly, Christopher’s a little upset. “Kate. After paintball . . . I threw you over my shoulder and humped you like an animal against a bathroom wall.”
“Technically, it was a bathroom door.”
“I tore off your underwear in the kitchen,” he groans, digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
“They were falling apart anyway.”
“Katerina,” he warns. His hands drop from his face and his eyes meet mine, dark and troubled. “I wish I’d known.”
“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I can’t explain how incredible it felt, how good it felt, after so long, being so frustrated and misunderstood by too many people, to be with you and for it to feel right.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “That night after paintball just . . . happened. Same with the kitchen. Every moment since then, it’s felt so right. And while I wish I could have found a way to tell you everything before this moment, you and I are messy people, Christopher. We don’t do things the easy way, and we don’t take the direct path. I’m here now, and I’m telling you. Please don’t hold that against me.”
He swallows thickly, his hand curling around my jaw. “I would never, Kate. I just . . . I could have hurt you, upset you—”
“But you didn’t,” I remind him, nuzzling my cheek into his palm. “You asked, and I answered, and you listened. It was perfect. And now I’m nervous that it won’t be perfect again, because we have this between us.”
“Honey.” He stares down at me with such absolute tenderness, such naked longing. “Nothing’s coming between us anymore. It’s just you and me.” His lips brush my cheek, gentle as a whisper. “That’s all that matters.”
I peer up at him, naked though I’m clothed, free-falling even though I’m held tight. “Promise?”
He lifts his pinkie. I lift mine and hook it around his. And just like our childhood ritual, he kisses his thumb, I kiss mine. When our thumbs meet, soft, slow, like a tender, trusting kiss, his mouth meets mine, too, as he whispers, “Promise.”
When we pull away, his eyes search mine. A sweet smile lifts his mouth.
“What is it?” I ask.
The smile deepens. “That night, after paintball, was that the first orgasm someone else gave you? The first—”
“Ugh!” I slug his shoulder, making him laugh as he leans in and kisses me harder. “The ‘specialness’ of ‘firsts,’ the notion of virginity, are patriarchal constructs, Christopher Petruchio. You are taking nothing first from me, you are not claiming me. I am not your property.”