24
Nate
Talking only.
That was the line I’d drawn in the text. That was the boundary I’d spent the last twenty-four hours mentally pacing around, trying to convince myself I wasn’t disappointed by it.
Talking about it should have been easy. I’ve never had a problem talking about sex.
Usually, though, those conversations don’t involve a girl who looks at me like I’m a high-stakes exam she’s terrified of failing.
They don’t involve color-coded safety systems or the heavy, humming weight of a trust I haven't quite earned yet.
I stood in my kitchen at 6:55, staring at the water bottles on the counter. I’d already cleaned the place twice. If I scrubbed the baseboards again, I was going to have to admit I was spiraling.
A knock sounded at seven sharp.
Hannah.
I opened the door, and there she was. She was in a cream-colored sweater that looked soft enough to be a crime, her blonde hair loose and falling over her shoulders. She looked up at me, and I could practically see the nervous energy radiating off her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
I stepped back to let her in. She brought the scent of vanilla and rain with her—a soft, clean smell that immediately made the apartment feel too small. I closed the door and locked it. It was a habit now, but I waited for her nod before I moved away from the threshold.
“Green,” she whispered.
We moved to the couch, sitting in the same spots as last time. The space between us felt like a physical barrier, one I was suddenly desperate to demolish.
“So,” I said, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. “You nervous?”
“Different than last time,” she admitted, her fingers twisting together in her lap. “This feels more... embarrassing. Because of what we’re talking about.”
“The orgasm thing.”
Her face went scarlet. “You don't have to say it so casually.”
“It’s a natural thing, Hannah. It’s not a test.”
I sat back, giving her room to breathe. I kept my voice steady, matter-of-fact. I explained that it was mental as much as physical. I told her that pressure was the fastest way to shut the whole system down.
“I’ve tried,” she said, her voice so low I had to lean in to hear it. “By myself. But I just get in my head. I start wondering if I’m doing it right, or if it’s weird, and then I just... stop.”
“That’s normal,” I told her. “If you’re judging yourself, you’re not feeling anything. Do you know what *does* feel good? Generally?”
She went through the list. Kissing. Hair. Her waist. The thigh thing. Then she mentions her chest, over the shirt, and I had to grip the edge of the couch to keep my hands to myself.
“And I liked knowing you liked it,” she added, her eyes lifting to mine.
The honesty in her gaze was a punch to the gut.
“Good girl,” I murmured.
Her breath caught. Her lashes fluttered. The reaction was so pure, so unguarded, that I had to remind myself of the "talking only" rule.
“Do you think it would help if you weren't the one in charge of the mechanics?” I asked. “If you could just focus on how it feels?”
She nodded.
“Do you think it would help if I kissed you first?”
The air in the room shifted, thickening with a sudden, sharp heat.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Can you kiss me?”
I don't wait for her to ask twice. I leaned in and captured her mouth with mine.
It wasn't soft this time; it was hungry.
She exhales into me, her hand curling into the front of my T-shirt.
She was moving with me now, her body leaning into mine, and I realized the "talking" part of the evening was officially over.
She moved before I expect it, lifting a knee onto the couch and swinging her leg over my lap.
I went rigid. “Hannah.”
She froze. “Yellow?”
“No. Just... I need you to know what you’re doing.” I gripped the couch cushions. “I’m hard, Hannah. I’m not letting you find that out by accident.”
She stared at me, her eyes wide. She didn't look scared; she looked dazed.
“Is it because of me?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
She didn't move away. Instead, she settled onto me, straddling my lap through our clothes. The friction was immediate and brutal. I clamped my hands onto the couch again, every muscle in my body locking down.
“Color,” I grit out.
“Green.”
I guided her hips forward, a slow, rolling motion. Hannah’s whole body jolts. Her mouth falls open, and her eyes squeeze shut.
“Oh,” she gasps.
“You okay?”
“I liked it.”
I was in hell. A very specific, very soft, vanilla-scented hell. I guided her again, letting her feel the pressure. She started to move with me, her hips finding a rhythm that made my vision go hazy.
“Right there?” I asked, my voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel.
“Yes. There.”
I pulled her down into a messy, desperate kiss. She was clinging to my shoulders, her breathing coming in shallow, ragged pulls. She trusted me to hold the line while she let go, and the weight of that trust was the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.
“Green?” I asked.
“Green. Please.”
I kept it slow. I kept it firm. I guided her hips over the same spot, over and over, until her breathing hitched and her thighs tensed around mine.
“Hannah. Look at me.”
She opened her eyes, and they were glassy, unfocused.
“You’re close. Just feel it.”
I moved her one more time, and her entire body arches. A soft, broken cry escapes her as she comes apart on my lap, shaking against me through both our clothes. I stopped moving and just held her hips, letting her ride out the waves.
She eventually collapsed forward, her forehead resting on my shoulder.
“You okay? Words, baby.”
“Green,” she mumbles.
She lifted her head, her face flushed and stunned. “Was that...?”
“Yeah,” I said, tenderness twisting in my chest. “That was it.”
She tried to move off my lap, and I helped her, immediately grabbing a pillow to cover the evidence of just how "affected" I was.
She noticed. Her face turned even redder. “I’m sorry.”
“No apologizing. I’m fine. Just suffering nobly.”
She laughed—a small, breathless sound. The tension broke, and we were back on solid ground. Mostly.
I drove her home later, the silence in the truck comfortable but charged. Before she gets out, she leans over and kisses my cheek. A small, soft thank-you that hit harder than any of the kissing on the couch.
“Goodnight, Nate.”
“Goodnight, Hannah Reed.”
I watched her walk into her building, my cheek burning. I held the line. I did what I promised. But as I drive away, I realize that the most dangerous part wasn't how good she felt in my lap.
It was the way she looked at me afterward—like I was someone she could finally be herself with.
And that is a hell of a lot scarier than any list.