Chapter 16 Phenotypic Sex
PHENOTYPIC SEX
*Samantha*
Two hours after I’d sworn off ever moving again, I was moving—down Fifth Avenue, hand in Andreas’s.
Manhattan in December was its own kind of Grimms’ fairy-tale setting.
Wool coats in every Pantone-neutral shade, the low and ceaseless whine of traffic, and the hint of holidays floating through the exhaust haze like cinnamon sprinkled on a garbage fire.
My lungs burned and my thighs prickled from the cold, but I walked on.
I wanted to make a joke about Brownian motion and city particles, but honestly, I was still processing the fact that, not an hour ago, I’d straddled the most brilliant mind in chess and tried (and failed) to convince him to let me reciprocate his boundless oral enthusiasm with at least one—ONE—act of service.
Nope. Andreas wanted to spend the entire morning making it about me, which sounded hot in theory but was, in practice, deeply aggravating.
Every time my hand wandered below the waistband of his fancy pajamas, he’d detour me with kisses, or nuzzle my stomach, or grip my wrists and pin them above my head.
He was too strong for my cleverest work-arounds.
I’d even tried logic. “You do realize this is supposed to be a two-way street, right?”
He’d just smiled, then gone back to methodically mapping my erogenous zones with the kind of attention to detail you only see in astrophysics or, well, chess.
By ten, I’d called it. “We need to leave this apartment or I’m going to combust.”
He’d nodded, still panting slightly, and stiffly stated that he needed to shower. Then he’d rushed off to his bathroom. I did not peek to see if he went cold or hot, but I had my suspicions.
Presently, Andreas and I were headed north, our destination Central Park. I didn’t bother to ask if there was an end goal. I was just happy to have this, whatever it was.
At the corner of 74th and Madison, we waited for the light, the pedestrian swarm eddying around us like we were a couple of decorative bollards.
I took the opportunity to check his profile, the sharp nose, the gold-shadowed cheekbones, the hair that looked tousled and deliberate.
He stared at me, too. Actually, he stared at me so intently that I felt myself grow self-conscious under the scrutiny.
“Is there something on my face?” I asked, which was a fair question. I’d skipped makeup and gone for a hat that could generously be called elf adjacent.
Instead of answering, he stepped forward, hand warm at my elbow, and bent to kiss me on the mouth.
Not a peck. A real, intent, you-will-think-about-this-at-inappropriate-times kind of kiss.
It lasted through the red light, past the walk sign chirping, and into the next cycle of traffic.
Pedestrians flowed around us in an indifferent stream.
He only broke the kiss when a wet, heavy snowflake splatted on his cheekbone and began to melt down his neck.
Andreas blinked, then produced a sleek black umbrella from the depths of his coat like a magician.
He snapped it open and tucked me under his arm, both of us shielded in the bubble of warm breath and umbrella fabric.
“You realize this is the world’s worst snow,” I said, glancing out at the wet-ice downpour. “It’s not even snow. It’s acid slushy.”
“I do not think it is so bad,” he replied, leading me off the curb and onto the crosswalk. “It gives me a reason to keep you close.”
I let that pass without comment, but I did slide my arm around his waist, snaking my hand under his coat and looping my thumb through the nearest belt loop.
We walked for several blocks, the city becoming progressively whiter and slipperier. The avenue ahead looked like it had been glazed with cornstarch. After a while, Andreas leaned his head toward mine, so close that his breath made the fuzz on my hat stand at attention.
“I apologize,” he said quietly.
I cocked an eyebrow up at him. “Why are you apologizing?”
He answered, stone-serious, “We agreed we would discuss public displays of affection before engaging in them.” For a second, I thought he was genuinely worried he’d broken our agreement, but then I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Andreas, the king of the deadpan.
I slid my hand down beneath his coat and pinched his butt, hard. His eyes went cartoonishly round. Looking down at me, mock-offended but actually clearly delighted.
“That was before we agreed to a friends-with-benefits situation,” I said, not even trying to hide my grin.
He considered this, head tilting, then asked, “Does that mean I do not need to ask before kissing you?”
“If you’re uncertain, feel free to ask. And I’ll do the same. Otherwise, just kiss me.”
He nodded solemnly. “What about when we are alone,” he asked, “can I touch you without asking?”
I waggled my eyebrows. “Again, if you’re uncertain, just ask. Otherwise, just touch me.”
He mulled this over as we crossed into the park, where the grass was still that eerie, too-green-for-winter color but the trees and railings had already been decked out in blue and silver Christmas lights.
A massive menorah and a giant blow-up dreidel stood next to a line of wire-frame reindeer. Only in New York, I thought.
Or maybe just in the USA? I had no idea. I’d never traveled outside the country.
The path narrowed, and the snow got deeper.
Andreas shifted the umbrella so that it covered more of me, which meant he had to lean down, almost folding himself in half to fit under the dome.
We walked like this for a bit, not talking, and I realized I liked the silence.
It was soft and companionable, not the awkward kind.
After a few more yards, he said, “What is the difference between what we are doing and actual dating?”
The question startled me so much that I nearly tripped on an icy patch. “What?”
“I mean,” he clarified, “if we are friends, but we also have benefits, but we are not dating—what is the difference?”
I was about to say something glib, like “It’s marketing,” but instead, a more interesting question slipped out of my mouth: “Have you ever dated anyone?”
He nodded. “Yes. I have dated a few people.”
This was not the answer I expected. “But you never went all the way with them?”
He shook his head, matter-of-fact. “No. But they were long-term, committed relationships. However, my traveling got in the way, and so . . .” He let the words trail off, as if the rest was both obvious and irrelevant.
I couldn’t help myself. “How far did you go with them? I mean, in the sex department.”
He answered easily, without embarrassment, “Just a few kisses.”
I frowned, trying to line up my understanding of him with the data I’d just been given. “Your decision or theirs?”
He thought for a long time, lips pursed, eyes squinted. Then he said, “Mostly mine, I suppose. I am not . . . I am not a very affectionate person, I think.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from bursting into laughter. I was currently being held, umbrellaed, and generally coddled within an inch of my life. He’d spent the entire morning worshipping my body like it was the lost ark. But he considered himself “not very affectionate”?
“Yeah,” I said, “you’re a real cold fish.” I didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm.
He glanced down at me, as if to see if I was joking. I grinned back up at him. His eyelids lowered, his expression looking half annoyed and half smiling, and then he bent his head to my ear and whispered, “That is not what you said earlier.”
I nearly tripped again, but this time it was because my knees gave out a little. The way he said it was so low and intimate I could feel it in my teeth.
“I surrender,” I said, laughing but also gasping a little when he nipped the edge of my ear. “We are in public. You have to behave.”
He looked at me, eyes bright and hot. “We should have just stayed in bed all day.”
I tried not to smile, but it was impossible. “We should change the subject,” I said, more to myself than to him.
He sighed, as though the effort of talking about something that wasn’t us in bed was genuinely painful. “Fine. Then tell me, what is the difference between dating and what we are doing?”
I glanced up at the skeleton trees and the gray sky, trying to organize my thoughts.
“When you date, it’s my understanding that you’re in a monogamous—unless discussed and agreed to be otherwise—emotionally committed relationship.
But friends with benefits means you’re not in a relationship other than a friendship and there is no expectation of genuine feelings developing between the two people. It’s just for fun.”
He listened closely, brow furrowed. “So we should not develop feelings for each other, right?”
I nodded, because my throat felt suddenly tight.
Andreas mumbled something I didn’t quite catch.
Neither of us spoke for a while. We walked deeper into the park, the snow collecting on the umbrella, weighing it down so that Andreas had to occasionally shake it off with a flick of his wrist. I was grateful for the break from talking, but I also wanted desperately to say something that would lighten the mood.
So, after wracking my brain, I settled on a subject I’d let drop last night. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, when I got in the car last night, you spoke to Tara on the sidewalk before we left for the wine bar. What was that about?”
He kept his gaze forward. “I wanted to make a slight change in your security coverage and wished to discuss it with her before I forgot. That is all.”
I nodded, not sure if I believed him but not wanting to press.
He looked over at me. “Do you have any other questions?”
I thought about this. Did I? There were so many, it would take a lifetime to answer them. But one rose to the surface, a little buoy of curiosity in the murk of my self-doubt.
“Yes. Actually, I do.”
He smiled, just a small one, and said, “I will tell you anything.”
I took a deep breath, not sure how to start. “Tell me about you.”