Chapter 27
Then next time I have a night off it aligns with one of Nick’s nights without Kira.
I suggested a trip to Rubino’s. It’s my go-to spot to take a person who denigrates Columbus-style pizza—something Nick has done on several occasions because of his allegiance to New Jersey.
But when I knock on his door, Nick ushers me inside.
“I just want to show you this before we go,” he says, taking a step backward. “I did a thing. Or, I tried to do a thing. It’s very fragile. It might fall apart while we’re eating your subpar pizza so I’m showing you now.”
He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a plate with a large misshapen, plastic-wrap-covered lump on top of it. “I thought it would be funny to follow through on the Bundt cake, but it didn’t come out of the pan, so it’s kind of…malformed.”
He removes the layers of plastic wrap and I stare at the golden-colored mound. About half of it has the telltale grooves of my mom’s pan; the other was clearly broken off.
“It forced me to go to Kroger and purchase things like flour and sugar in addition to the Fruity Pebbles. I wanted to make a chocolate one, but that required cocoa powder, which I didn’t buy at the store because I thought it was the same as hot chocolate mix—”
Nuggets of Romily’s presentation and warnings float through my head, but all I can say is “You made me a cake?”
“It’s misshapen.”
“Okay, but cakes that look a little wonky always taste the best,” I say.
He puts the plate down, and that’s when I decide I’m not interested in pizza. And I’m done with savoring.
“Can I see your bedroom?”
Nick pushes open the door to the one room in the apartment I haven’t seen.
Good news: there’s an actual bed frame. A headboard. More than one pillow.
A giant shelving unit spanning the length of the wall.
“Obviously I still need to decorate.” He nods at some framed gig posters propped against the wall. Bands I don’t completely recognize. They sound familiar to me in a hazy kind of vaguely-aware-of-their-existence way. I decide to be impressed.
Not so impressive are the boxes and piles.
I’m judging this (unfairly), even though I sleep in an office where the boxes outnumber me about fifteen to one.
I’m peeking at the contents of the Captain Morgan Original Spiced Rum box next to the door when I feel Nick’s hands brushing against my spine and then moving around my waist. His warm—always warm—body on my back.
It’s like he’s spooning me while we’re standing up and I’m torn between wanting to just stay like this for several minutes or do more vigorous things horizontally.
Who am I kidding? I’m not torn.
I reach my right hand behind me, between our bodies, and I’m certain Nick is not torn, either.
His breath tickles the back of my neck. I drop my head forward, giving him better access.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He takes the bait, grazing my shoulder with his mouth. “I did change the sheets.”
I think my arms are already covered in goose bumps. “You liked your odds, huh?”
“I like you.” His lips move up my shoulder and the nape of my neck. “A lot.”
“You could hide it better.” I watch his fingers work at the buttons on my shirt, exposing my bra.
“Why would I want to hide it?”
I don’t have a good answer to that. Actually, the answer is: you see, I feel more comfortable when my would-be partners neg me.
But maybe it doesn’t have to be that way.
“Good to know that you don’t only do this in the kitchen at Chili’s.” I feel everything with such clarity right now: the scratchy friction of Nick’s beard against my back, the cool breeze from the ceiling fan. “Or your car.”
“Trying to be slightly more comfortable here.” Nick reaches the last button and tugs the shirt off. It lands next to my feet.
“Fewer bruises.” It occurs to me that we haven’t properly undressed in front of each other. There are still so many tangible little mysteries to unravel.
“There are better ways to get bruises,” he replies.
His mouth makes a sudden swerve back up to where my neck meets my shoulder and begins to suck.
“Just tell me what you want.” He moves my bra strap out of the way and I can feel myself getting wet.
Stomach tight. Energy building inside me. “Anything.”
My hands grab at his belt buckle, which is still pressing against my back.
He’s never seen my body and I am very sober. I catch the gut impulse of fear before it takes over and toss it away with a deep breath. Turning around to face him, I’m strangely unafraid that he’s going to silently judge me while pretending he isn’t.
“You’re beautiful,” Nick says softly. He holds my chin, not letting me focus on some random spot on the wall behind him. “Don’t roll your eyes. You’re—” He lets out a breath. “I could just look at you all night.”
I can’t help scanning for red flags. Old habits, I guess. He hasn’t done anything to merit suspicion. It’s me. Looking for evidence, creating narratives.
I give him the hint of a smile. “Please don’t just look.”
There’s a pause, then a flurry of motion: tugging up on the hem of his T-shirt, hands against skin, the belt buckle dropping to the floor with a soft clunk against the carpet. I almost trip while stepping out of my pants because we’re trying to kiss and undress simultaneously.
I don’t want to be patient about things like socks and hook-and-eye bra closures.
But Nick takes a step backward and then touches my shoulder, like a man without his reading glasses who needs to hold his book at arm’s length.
“Now you’re just looking again,” I say with a touch of whine in my voice, feeling his gaze on me under the too-bright overhead light.
“Just for a minute. I want you to look, too. Or you might wake up tomorrow morning, look to your left, and think ‘Jesus Christ, this guy has salt-and-pepper chest hair!’ ”
“Honestly, I have more questions about this.” I point at a tattoo on his right shoulder that’s starting to fade and spread. “Is that a teacup?”
“You’re right. Let’s save the looking for afterward.”
“Actually, wait.” I lower my line of sight down his torso and lower, lower, lower. “I would like to stare for another thirty seconds, at least. Give you a taste of your own medicine.”
“I’m going to distract you, though.” He takes a step forward and the backs of my legs push against the foot of the bed. I reach for him automatically, pressing my fingers into his shoulder for balance, pulling him in.
And then it’s skin against skin. His hands on me, everywhere. Everywhere. Mouth on my neck, behind my ear. Then on my mouth, and I’m not being coy or tentative about really deep kisses.
His beard scrapes against my chin, throat, collarbone, breasts. A tinge of pain and he’s lightly torturing my nipple, but it’s not enough. I feel my head fall back and I’m staring at the ceiling fan, feeling dizzy but also more alert than I have ever been in my entire fucking life.
My back hits the mattress. His cock is so hard against my upper thigh; I just want him inside me. I’m pinned underneath his weight and I don’t want to feel any cool air between us.
I rake my fingers through Nick’s hair, my whole torso moving up and down with each breath, and I don’t understand how he’s doing this to me with just my nipple.
I want things right now. Parts of me that have been dormant for so long are awake and greedy.
“Please.” Breath. “Tell me you have condoms.” Breath, breath.
He raises his head. “I had a lot of other things in mind first.”
Breath. “Nick.” I dig my nails into his back. “I’m telling you what I want.”
He grins and I melt farther into the bed. “Atta girl.” Okay, I have now sublimated into a pool of liquid. “They’re on the nightstand.”
The last thing I want to do is peel away from him. It’s like I’ve never been this physically close with someone—the magnetic pull sucking us together this time, instead of resisting. But I make the temporary sacrifice, roll over, and reach for the cardboard box.
“Extra-large magnum?” I dangle the sleeve of condoms in front of his face. “Sir. I think I better be on top.”
He tears one away. “Good thing you’re really wet.”
I’m a cyclone of giddiness and nerves and feral need watching him roll the condom on.
I adjust my position on top of him a little bit, my knees squeezing his sides.
He grabs my hips and I hold my breath. But instead of moving he asks, “Are you sure?”
A laugh gets stuck in my throat. Am I sure?
“Oh yeah.” It comes out with the affect of a joke, but I mean it. I’m never “sure” about any aspect of my life. I pretty much thrive on ambivalence. But now? “Positive.”
I shift my hips a little bit and start to sink down. The gasp that escapes my mouth sounds manufactured. Like someone sweetening the dialogue for an adult video. But it’s genuine. Thank God I’m on top.
It’s crazy how the first few seconds feel so impossibly tight before easing into this fullness that feels so comfortable. Like he could live inside me. And he could look up at me like this forever. I’ve hardly moved—hardly exhaled—and he’s just barely hanging on.
“F-fuck,” he mutters. “Hold on. Don’t—” There’s a bulging vein in his forehead. “You’re gonna make me come if you do that.”
We’re breathing together, my breasts pressed against his chest.
“Okay,” he says. “Just let me…for a second.” I try to stay still as he slowly thrusts up. And then once more. “Yeah. Just…slow.”
He moves at a steady pace and I have to fight the impulse to speed toward the end. We get a good rhythm going and he wedges his fingers next to my clit and that friction is sending me toward the edge.
“God. You’re fucking gushing.” His voice is ragged. We’re both sweating.
“Your fault.”
I’m taking, rather than giving, and I kind of don’t care because I’m certain everything will be reciprocated. I’m not policing a single thing about myself.
And even though he’s hitting all the right spots in a sort of maddening way, what’s really doing it for me are the sounds he’s making.
Maybe men are just socialized to stoically keep quiet, but he didn’t get that memo.
Or maybe he tore up the memo, because his moans are more resonant than mine and I am living for it.
Because he’s fucking me.
He’s. Fucking. Me.
And it’s undoing him.
Which is undoing me.
Like, immediately.
“I’m—I’m gonna come.” He’s nodding at me and I know he’s right there, too.
Sometimes I don’t like to announce it because it creates this extra pressure to deliver, but my brain has reassigned most of its synapses to whatever region handles orgasms, so I can’t be held responsible.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop-dont-stop-dont-stop. ”
“Holy shit. Holy. Shit.”
I grab on to the headboard and he lets out this deep, guttural sound that drives me careening over the edge.
I’m desperate for it, but I don’t want anything to stop.
I let go of whatever grip I had on myself and yell something—I don’t know what, because…
head empty. For a few seconds, my body drowns in euphoria.
I feel Nick come with a shudder. I definitely hear it. I see it on his face. It wasn’t precisely simultaneous, but close enough to make me feel grateful for this intensely shared experience.
I let myself collapse on top of him in a sweaty heap. He’s still inside me and I just want to stay like that. Little animated hearts must be radiating off my body, into the ether.
“Fuck.” He laughs and it moves my chest, too. “Where the hell did you come from?”
“Behind that wall.”