I’d wanted to want it more.
I remember thinking that—standing there with my back against the wall, his mouth on mine, my body waiting for the spark everyone talked about like it was a universal law.
But the spark never came.
Not then.
Not with him.
His hand had slipped under my shirt, tentative, respectful, and instead of heat I’d felt a sudden panic—sharp, bright, irrational.
Not because he was doing anything wrong.
Because I could feel the moment tipping. The moment where I might say yes out of obligation. Where I might give him something just because it seemed like the natural next step, and then wake up later with the sick knowledge that I’d handed myself over without being sure.
I’d pulled away. Smiled. Said something about an early morning.
He’d been polite about it.
Then he’d stopped texting as much. Found someone else. Someone more ready.
And I’d told myself it was fine.
I’d told myself it proved I was doing the right thing.
But lying was easier when you did it softly.
Now, in the dim, private light, I stared at the ceiling and admitted a truth I usually kept behind my teeth.
I was a virgin.
Not in the sweet, innocent way people imagined. Not as some shining badge of purity. I had thoughts. I had curiosity. I had a body that responded to things I didn’t always want it to respond to.
I was a virgin because I’d never met a man who made me feel safe enough to surrender and dangerous enough to want to.
And now there was a man who made me want without offering safety at all.
That was the cruel joke.
He didn’t belong in my world.
And yet, my body had reacted to him like it had finally recognized something it had been waiting for—without permission, without promise, without a single touch ever having happened.
I rolled onto my side, pulling the covers up, trying to stop my mind from opening doors it had kept locked for years.
But the doors were already open.
And the worst part was, I didn’t know how to close them again.
The next morning, I woke early with a strange sense of urgency, like my body had decided something overnight and my mind was still scrambling to catch up.
My phone buzzed as I made coffee.
A text from Portia.
Portia Dane:We’ll need a follow-up call today. 2:00. I’ll have my assistant send details.
I stared at the message longer than necessary, the name on the screen feeling like a key.
