Chapter 4 #2
And I do, internal muscles clenching around him as pleasure radiates from my core to every extremity. Somewhere through the haze, I hear him groan my name, feel his hips jerk as he follows me over, but I’m too lost in sensation to process anything beyond the aftershocks rolling through me.
When reality seeps back in, I realize I’ve made him come as well, which makes me smile given all the warmth he’s given me. And, a second later, I’m collapsed on his chest, both of us breathing like we’ve run wind sprints. His heart pounds under my cheek, nearly as fast as mine.
A question escapes my mouth before my filters engage. “Is it always like that for you?”
He shifts to look down at me. “Like what?”
“So… generous,” I say, after struggling to find the right word. “So focused on the other person.”
Silence stretches long enough that I regret asking, then he responds. “Sex is better when you’re both invested.”
The simplicity of it—the revolutionary idea that both people should care about both people’s pleasure—cracks something open in my chest. How many mediocre encounters have I accepted as normal? How many times have I faked satisfaction because asking for what I needed seemed like too much trouble?
I inch closer to him, and suddenly realize I’m slicked with sweat. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m gross.”
His arms band around me before I can escape. “Don’t apologize. And you’re not gross, you’re gorgeous. Plus, getting sweaty was kind of the point.”
We lie there breathing together, his heartbeat steadying under my ear.
This quiet intimacy has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with connection.
This is exactly what I’ve been avoiding since Jimmy proved that letting someone in means giving them the power to leave when you need them most.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, breaking the moment although I desperately don’t want to.
“Hurry back.” The sleepy command in his voice makes something flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with physical satisfaction.
In the bathroom mirror, I catalog the evidence: smudged mascara, tangled hair, lips swollen from kissing.
I look thoroughly debauched, and some reckless part of me loves that Mike did this to me and loves that I let him.
And, for the first time in months, I had fun and I didn’t check my phone to see what others needed.
Maya would be so proud.
When I emerge, he’s sitting on the edge of my bed, tying off the condom. The casual domesticity of it—him taking care of cleanup in my space—hits harder than it should. He turns at my approach, and the slow sweep of his eyes over my naked body makes me feel bold instead of self-conscious.
“See something you like?” he grins.
Heat rushes to my cheeks at my own daring, but I hold his gaze. “Maybe.”
He stretches like a cat in sunshine, all languid muscle and male satisfaction.
Then more words spill out of me, unbidden. “You can stay. If you want.”
Silence stretches between us. My pulse kicks into overdrive, because I’m as shocked as he clearly is by my words. Because I don’t do this. I don’t invite complications to spend the night. I don’t?—
“You sure?” he says. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Yes.” The certainty in my voice surprises me. “It’s late, and I… I’d like you to.”
“Then I’d like that too.”
He slides back under my covers and holds them open, an invitation and a question rolled into one. I climb in beside him, maintaining an unsure distance until he solves the problem by pulling me against his side. My head finds the hollow of his shoulder like it was carved for me.
But as his breathing evens out, my mind races. What have I done? What if he thinks this means something? The sex was incredible—mind-blowing, actually—and Mike is everything I’d want if I was in the market for a relationship. Funny, kind, attentive, built like a statue...
But I can’t be in the market.
Not with Mom’s treatment schedule. Not with Hazel needing rides to eight different activities.
Not with clinical rotations starting next month.
My life is held together with color-coded calendars and careful juggling.
A relationship would be one more ball in the air, and I’m already dropping too many.
“Mike?” I say.
“Hmm?” His voice comes out drowsy, content.
“What do you think this is?”
He opens one eye. “What do you mean?”
“This.” I gesture between us, trying to find words that won’t wound him, after how kind and attentive he’s been. “Tonight was… amazing. And I want you to stay. But I need you to know I’m not really looking for anything beyond tonight. It’s not you?—”
“It’s where you’re at right now,” he says and, judging by the look on his face, he means it. “I get it.”
His easy acceptance throws me. No hurt. No pressure. Just understanding. “But I’d love to add you to my very short, exclusive Pine Barren Friend List,” I say.
He studies me for a moment, then smiles and interlaces our fingers. “Then we’d better make the most of this one night.”
The kiss he pulls me in for is different from our earlier desperate passion, slow and thorough, and when we break apart, I’m breathless for entirely new reasons. Because, after one night with Mike—one night of feeling desired and cared for and worth the effort—I know what I’ve been missing.
And I’m terrified that one night will never be enough.