Then his whole body is pressed on top of mine, packed together on his sofa like two sardines. The second we make contact it’s bliss, my arms and legs wrapped around him, my chest pressed up against his. He slides against me and we both groan, desperate for what’s to come.
But still, he’s not rushing. He nudges his nose against mine; I’m almost cross-eyed from trying to watch him this close. I can see all the flecks of green in his eyes, every individual eyelash.
“You are so special,” he breathes, and then he’s pushing into me, and I’m no longer a person, just a loose assortment of noise and feeling.
He’s slow at first, then firmer, then harder. The feeling of Connor in me, and on me, and around me is like nothing else, and before I know it another orgasm is dancing there just beyond my reach. As soon as I’ve had the thought he’s moving, pulling me up onto his lap. His eyes flash, one hand on my waist while the other finds my core. I tilt my hips forward to get the angle I’m looking for, then bury my head into his shoulder to fall apart again, him rocking steadily beneath me all the while. He flips us over one last time and I dig my hands into his ass as his movements become clipped, frantic, until finally, I feel him tense, then still.
For a long time afterward neither of us move, simply breathe hard against each other. When he shifts his weight and pulls away, I feel bereft. Emotion is crawling up inside of me. I feel like I urgently need to tell him something that I have no idea how to put into words.
I expected him to get up, to start gathering the clothes thrown on the floor around us, but he doesn’t. He rolls onto hisside, then pulls me in and wraps his arms around me and holds me there without saying a word. I burrow into his neck and give over to the feeling of his chest rising and falling, the gentle glide of his fingertips stroking up and down my back, the press of his lips against my forehead.
We lie there in the quiet, and float.
Twenty-Five
“I still haven’t seen your bedroom,” I tell him later, much later, after we’ve dozed off and cleaned up. “Are you sure you have one?”
He slides his briefs on as he stands, raising them into place with an elastic snap, then turns to offer me a hand.
“I have been a bad host,” he says gravely, pulling me up. “Allow me to complete the tour.”
I laugh, and stand, fishing my own panties off the floor and sliding them on. My bra, I realize, is still in the other room, so I trail behind him, arms crossed over my chest.
I didn’t notice it before, but his bedroom is right off the living room—the door was beside the sofa this whole time.
He flicks on the light, then slides past me through the doorway, opening a drawer in his big wooden dresser and rummaging for a moment before fishing out a T-shirt.
In two steps he’s back at my side, and he pulls it over my head, holding the hem in place while I poke my arms through. He drops a kiss on my cheek.
I look down at what I’m wearing, then burst out laughing. “Connor.”
He is the portrait of innocence. “What? I thought you’d likeit.”
I do like it. It’s an enormous white T-shirt withDinoCodeemblazoned across the chest.
It’s basically your standard-issue bedroom: there’s an armchair in the corner with a couple of sweaters piled up on it, an old wooden dresser, and a bed. Which, I notice, is made. I wonder if Connor is the kind of person who always leaves his apartment tidy when he goes out for the day or if he cleaned it up hoping I’d end up here later.
Left of the bedroom isanotherdoorway, and I wander through it, completely agog at what I find. It’s a sort of walk-through wardrobe, with clothing rails on each side, and then a master bathroom, with aseparateshower and bath.
“This is the big flex in this apartment,” I say, pointing at the two sinks. “What could you possibly need these for?”
“Simple,” he says. “You brush your teeth there. And then that sink is strictly for hand-washing.”
I look at him suspiciously. “Actually?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I only use the left one.”
“How long have you lived here?” I ask, running a finger along the faucet.
“Eight years,” he tellsme.
“Always alone?”
I thought I was being really stealthy there. His raised eyebrow tells me I wasnot.
“Always alone.”
I shrug like, whatever, don’t care. But secretly I’m pleased to know he didn’t pick this place out for him and someone else.
