Chapter 15 Sex Determination
SEX DETERMINATION
*Samantha*
I didn’t know how long I clung to him, maybe a minute, maybe an hour, maybe the half-life of a radioactive isotope. Time seemed irrelevant. There was only Andreas’s heartbeat under my palm, the slick press of his arm at my back, and the warmth of our foreheads knocking gently together.
He was still breathing hard. As was I. My lungs were desperate for air.
Every breath felt like it might be the one that reminded me of who I actually was, as opposed to who I became when he touched me.
Or maybe this was who I actually was, a person with needs and feelings and a desire for this man that was so strong, it terrified me.
He lifted his chin and we kissed, slower and softer now, the rhythm of it tender and sustained.
Then, some part of my rational mind—buried under the volcanic crust of post-orgasmic bliss—remembered the basic facts of anatomy and causality, namely that Andreas had come, spectacularly, and it was all over his gorgeous sweater, my hand, and my jeans.
Romantic, I know.
I shifted my weight to the side and managed, with an awkward crab-scoot, to avoid smearing even more of the evidence across my chest. It was only as the dopamine started to ebb, as my heartbeat began to slow, that a particular sensation rushed in.
Not shame, not exactly, but a sort of dread, like a cold front arriving out of nowhere.
The voice in my head piped up. What have you done?
You just made out with your fake fiancé like a desperate, horny teenager and it was the most fun you’ve had since . . . FOREVER.
My previous hookups—such as they were—had all been transactional and efficient. Maybe a few minutes of foreplay, then straight to the business, because why drag it out?
With Andreas tonight, going slow had definitely been hot, but it had also been .
. . deeper, somehow. It felt less like eating fast food in a parking lot and more like feasting at a table with endless gourmet courses, each one better than the last, and finishing with the knowledge that I hadn’t yet sampled the full menu yet.
Oh crap. Did this—did we just—did this mean something?!
It did. It had meant something. I hated that it meant something. I hated even more that I was terrified of what it meant.
I felt his arms squeeze me a little tighter, and I could tell he wanted to say something. The words seemed to vibrate in his chest, just waiting to be expelled. But I was not ready for words. I was not ready for analysis or debrief or, God forbid, a check-in about feelings.
“Here,” I said, my own voice embarrassingly raw. “Let me go so I can clean up.”
He flinched as though he’d just remembered I was naked from the waist up and covered in bodily fluids. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”
I peeled myself away from him—careful to keep the mess corralled—and scuttled toward the edge of the bed, my hand held away from my body. “I’ll just go take care of things,” I mumbled, grabbing my discarded shirt with my clean hand and trying to cover myself.
I did not look at him. I could feel something like panic spreading from my chest to the tips of my ears and the backs of my knees.
I did not want him to see it. In the hallway, I clutched the shirt to me, wrapping my clean arm around my torso in a vain attempt to feel less exposed.
Hurrying into the bathroom, I locked the door and went straight for the sink.
For the first twenty seconds I did nothing but stare at my hand under the running water and try to catch my breath.
Then I washed my hands thoroughly, and the memory of his voice in my ear, his hands on my breasts, the way he’d come apart under me—like I’d done something powerful and beautiful—came rushing back.
It returned so bright and urgent it made me dizzy.
I gripped the edges of the sink for balance.
When my pulse returned to something resembling a resting state, I splashed cold water on my face.
Only then did I glance in the mirror. My hair was a disaster, a horizontal comet tail.
My cheeks were blotched with red, and my chest and neck bore the unmistakable evidence of our lovemaking, a constellation of love bites and handprints covered my skin, and—
AHHHH!
Lovemaking?!
I scolded myself for calling it lovemaking, even in my own brain. It was not love. It was friends with benefits.
Yeah, yeah. That’s the ticket.
I stripped off my jeans and climbed into the shower, setting the temperature to hot but not scalding.
The water felt amazing and I washed everywhere, twice, even though there was nothing left to wash away except the memory of his skin against mine.
While I stood under the spray, I realized that the thought of facing him again made me more nervous now than I’d been before we’d taken things to sexy town.
Why? Why would seeing him be so much scarier now? I tried to puzzle it out, tried to analyze my feelings the way I would a bizarre result on a gel electrophoresis, but the answer eluded me. All I could do was focus on the fact that, in a few minutes, I’d have to see him again.
After the shower, I dried off and wrapped the towel tight around my chest, tucking the corner in so it would stay put.
Peeking out of the bathroom, I saw no sign of Andreas in the hallway; he must’ve retreated to his own room.
I sprinted the short distance to my bedroom and shut the door.
Rifling through my drawers for the baggiest, most amorphous sweatpants I could find, I tugged them on plus my old undergrad hoodie with the paint stains on the sleeves.
Dressed in full emotional armor, I sat on the edge of the mattress—which Andreas must’ve stripped of covers—and tried to steady my breathing.
You are fine, I told myself. This is the ideal scenario.
Friends with benefits is exactly what you said you wanted.
No strings, no feelings, no expectations.
It’s a system that has been mathematically proven to work for you.
I have an adequately powered sample size!
So why did it feel like my heart had just been scooped out and left to air-dry on the radiator?
I stared at the ceiling, debating the merits of remaking my bed, crawling under my covers, and—
That was when I heard it. The soft thump of footsteps in the hall.
Andreas’s voice, quiet but clear, called out, “Samantha, may I talk to you?”
The sound of my name in his voice was like a defibrillator to my insides. Instantly, every nerve ending buzzed. I pressed my hand to my chest, wishing I could forcibly slow the arrhythmia, and tried to compose myself. I had a job to do. I had to be cool, calm, and at least plausibly collected.
“Yes,” I called out, voice only shaking a little. “Be right there.”
I took a few deep, centering breaths, then patted my cheeks to see if the flush had faded. It had not. That was fine. I could be pink. There was nothing wrong with pink.
Walking out of my bedroom and down the hall, I found Andreas in the living room, seated at the black table with a notebook open in front of him.
When he looked up at me, his features weren’t masklike and detached, nor were his eyes weren’t cold or unreadable.
They were full of warmth and interest and anticipation.
I melted. I straight-up, puddle-on-the-floor melted.
I stopped a few feet away and managed a small, shy, “Hi.” The word sounded alien coming from me. I was not a person who said hi in a small or shy way.
Andreas stood up and crossed the distance between us. “Hi,” he said, his voice not at all shy. It was deep and loaded with meaning.
He took my hand and kissed the back of it, eyes holding mine, the faint smile on his lips never quite leaving his mouth. I felt like I was living inside a classic romance, the kind where the guy is tall and dangerous and very European, and the girl is . . . not me.
He didn’t let go of my hand as he asked, “Where are you sleeping tonight?”
I blinked at him, caught off guard. “I mean, should I sleep in my room? Now that you’re back? Right? Or—”
He interrupted, “You should sleep in my bed. Since you do not sleepwalk when you start the night in my room.”
“Oh,” I said, voice a little high. “Then where will you sleep?” I bit my lip to keep from adding, I hope it’s with me.
He seemed a little uncertain, like he hadn’t anticipated the question. That made two of us.
I blurted, “Sleep with me.” The words hung in the air for a beat before I realized how they must have sounded. “I mean, just sleep. Obviously. Because we’re going slow. And I’ve already showered.”
I cringed so hard my soul left my body and hovered near the smoke detector.
But Andreas grinned, his shyness from the before-sexy-times replaced by something both confident and sweet. “If you do not mind, then I think we should sleep in the same bed.”
I squeezed his fingers, smiling so widely I was sure my face would be sore tomorrow. I had never, in my entire life, felt anything quite like this.
As we stood there, close enough for the heat from his chest to reach me, I realized the truth. I was in so much trouble. I was definitely falling for Andreas Kristiansen.
Or maybe, I already had.
* * *
The next time I opened my eyes, it was because something hot and heavy was pressed against my bottom, and there was the soft sound of breathing in my ear.
For a luxurious, floaty moment, I lay still and allowed the sensation to register.
The weight behind me was not, as I’d half dreamt, a particularly dense body pillow.
It was a person—a six-foot-plus, brilliant and sweet, abnormally considerate Norwegian-Italian specimen—and that specimen was spooning me with the kind of thoroughness normally reserved for vacuum sealing.