Twenty-One
Winter
The beeping of my phone’s alarm clock wakes me abruptly from a pleasurable dream, one I would have gladly stayed in a little longer.
I roll toward the nightstand and stretch my arm to silence the noise, hoping not to wake the sleeping man in my bed, but when I reach cautiously over his body to hit the stop button, it becomes clear that he’s awake. As I turn off the noise, he shifts and hauls me on top of his body.
Warm hands close on my hips, giving a firm squeeze before sliding to wrap around my back, hugging me tight.
“I didn’t realize you were awake,” I say.
“Kind of hard not to be with that bright and early alert,” Saint replies. He was annoyed at my insistence that we wake up early enough for him to sneak out of my room before my brothers get up.
We’ve been doing this for three days straight. Every night, Saint sneaks into my room when the coast is clear, and every morning, I insist on him leaving before the sun rises to keep our involvement quiet.
If my brothers were to find out he’s staying with me at night, they’d know we’re involved romantically.
They’ve both been terrible about secrets.
If they found out, I can almost guarantee that within minutes, one of them would be calling my mom to tell her.
Then there wouldn’t be a single person in this small town who didn’t know.
“A couple more minutes,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’m enjoying this.”
Honestly, I was enjoying it too, but I’m still not ready for anyone to find out about us because it seems pointless.
This is only going to be a fling. Eventually, I’ll return to New York City.
If we made a commitment or told our friends and family, it would cause unnecessary pain when it inevitably ended.
The lack of a future between us won’t stop me from enjoying it now, though.
I prop myself up slightly, my bent arms on each side of his head. Leaning down, I run the tip of my nose along the edge of his ear. Something I noticed always gives him goose bumps.
He makes a low noise deep in his throat, and I smirk in the dark at how easy it is to get him riled up.
“Win,” he complains, not because he doesn’t like it, but likely because I can feel him growing hard beneath me. He probably thought this would be like the other times, a bit of light making out and then having to put away our lust for each other. But today I have other plans.
I kiss along his neck, trailing down to his collarbone, where I gently nip the junction of his neck and shoulder.
“The alarm—” He starts to protest, knowing how adamant I’ve been about him leaving in the mornings.
“It’s Thanksgiving, Holland. I’m sure they plan to sleep in and make us do all the work around here. No one will be up for at least a couple of hours,” I reply as I move. I sit up, straddling his hips.
Saint’s hands bracket my waist as I slowly rub along the hardness I awoke in him. The masculine groan that leaves him is music to my ears, a melody that has been forbidden until now.
Warmth spreads through me, my insides turning molten when he holds me still, impeding me from moving against him again.
“Win, I need you to be sure.” It sounds like a warning and a plea all at once.
“I am sure, Saint.” I lean down, and this time I kiss his lips, then pull away before he could kiss me back. “I want this. I want you.”
He stares intently into my eyes, almost stunned for a moment. I wait for him to say something—anything would be great at this point. It’s starting to feel awkward, as if I’ve taken things too far. Maybe he isn’t ready. His silence feels like a rejection.
He rolls us, but instead of confining my body with his like I hope he would, he leaves the bed.
Clearly, I misread the situation. I can’t even think of something to say as he crosses the room away from me.
It doesn’t take long for me to go from hurt to angry.
If he isn’t interested, that’s fine. The least he can do is express that.
Communicate his feelings. Such a guy thing to stay silent when words are the most important.
I’m about to say something, not sure what, but something mean and hateful.
Something to hurt him, just because I feel hurt.
But before any words leave my lips, he’s back.
Wallet in hand, he climbs on the bed. After pulling a condom from inside, he tosses the leather wallet onto my nightstand.
Oh. He was just getting a condom. My anger quickly flees.
“I thought you didn’t want to,” I admit.
Seeming to realize he hasn’t said anything, he shakes his head, an anxious look taking over his face.
“Sorry.” He swallows, and even in the low light, I can see his throat bob.
He’s holding the condom, looking unsure, so I cover his hand with mine.
“We don’t have to. If you aren’t ready or don’t want to, I’d rather you just tell me.”
If I thought he was nervous before, the look intensifies. He shakes his head vehemently. With gentle hands, he turns my face away from his.
“Don’t look at me for a second.”
I can hear his exhale, heavy in the silence of the room. Steadying himself.
“I need to tell you something, but I-I’m not sure how to say it, and you looking at me while I say it makes me nervous.”
My stomach churns. My emotions are on a rollercoaster, and I’m not prepared for them. Sad, mad, excited, nervous. This not knowing has me hanging by a thread.
“Okay, I won’t look. I promise.”
Just for added benefit, I close my eyes, head still angled away.
A hesitant chuckle breaks the tension. At least he’s starting to relax a little.
Softly, he strokes my hair before breaking his silence, the motion soothing his lingering tension.
“I’ve not done this before.”
My brain must not be properly processing what he said. But I sit for a minute, replaying the sounds in my mind.
“You’ve not done what?” Surely, he can’t mean he hasn’t had sex.
We’re twenty-six years old. There must have been someone he’s slept with, experimented with at the very least. Maybe he meant he hasn’t been with anyone he wasn’t in a relationship with.
Perhaps he feels like he needs commitment before sharing himself with someone.
I wait for him to say something other than what comes from his lips next.
“Winter, I’m a virgin.”
The revelation stuns me silent. I’ve always thought Saint was attractive, even when we were teenagers and hated each other.
I know for a fact he had a couple of girlfriends in high school, and surely he hasn’t spent all these years single.
Is he lying? But it seems like a silly thing to lie about, and the more I think about it, the more I realize it wouldn’t make sense for him to lie about this.
Usually, when lying about sex, guys do the opposite.
They say they’ve had way more of it than they have.
Concluding he’s telling me the truth, but needing to double-check, I ask him, “You’re a virgin? You haven’t had sex?”
“Never.”