“That sounds perfect,” I said, and I meant it. I loved hearing about her childhood, loved the way her face lit up when she talked about the good memories.
“What about you? Any secret hideouts?”
“The garage,” I said immediately. “My dad had this old motorcycle he was always tinkering with, and I’d sit on the floor and hand him tools. He taught me how engines worked, how to change oil, all that stuff.”
“Is that where you learned to be so good with your hands?” she asked, then blushed furiously at the implication.
I grinned wickedly. “Among other things.”
She buried her face in the pillow, groaning with embarrassment, and I couldn’t help but laugh at how adorable she was.
But as her laughter died down and we settled back into comfortable silence, something nagged at me. The realisation of how much I’d just shared hit me like a cold wave. I never talked about my parents’ reaction to coming out. Hell, I never talked about coming out at all with the women I’d been with before. It was always just understood, a given, not something worth discussing.
And the virginity thing? I’d never told anyone that story. Not even Atlas or any of my closest friends knew about the hair comb incident. Yet here I was, spilling my guts to Kelechi like it was the most natural thing in the world.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I’d always been the one who kept things surface-level. Physical attraction, good chemistry, maybe some fun conversations, but never this deep sharing of personal history. I’d learned early that opening up too much scared people off, made them think I was too intense, too much. Especially the feminine women I usually dated, who seemed to want the fantasy of the confident butch without the messy reality of actual emotions.
But with Kelechi, it felt different. She asked questions like she genuinely wanted to know the answers, not like she was just making conversation. She listened with this focused attention that made me feel heard in a way I wasn’t used to.
Still, the vulnerability made my skin crawl a little. This wasn’t me. I didn’t do heart-to-heart conversations in bed. I didn’t share childhood stories and family dynamics. I kept things light, kept people at arm’s length where they couldn’t hurt me or decide I was too complicated for them.
Yet looking at her now, her hair spread across my pillow, her eyes soft and trusting, I found I didn’t want to take any of it back. For the first time in my life, I’d found someone who made opening up feel safe instead of stupid.
“I’ve been wanting to say something, ugh,” she said, balling herself up more and covering her face with her hands like she was cringing hard.
“Go ahead, you’re making me curious now,” I replied, gently pulling her hands away from her face so I could see her properly.
She looked embarrassed, her cheeks flushed that deep red I’d come to adore. “It’s just… when we’re together, intimate, I mean… you’re always the one giving. Taking care of me. Making sure I feel good.”
I felt my brow furrow slightly. “Your pleasure is my pleasure, princess. I love watching you?—”
“But that’s just it,” she interrupted softly. “I want to make you feel good too. I want to learn how to touch you the way you touch me.” She bit her lip, looking vulnerable and determined all at once. “I want to give you pleasure too, Marley. I just… I don’t know how.”
Something warm unfurled low in my chest at her words, because this was new. The women I’d been with before had rarely expressed that kind of curiosity about my needs; they were content to let me take the lead and focus on them. But this woman in front of me was worried about reciprocity, wanting to learn how to please me.
“You don’t have to—” I started.
“But I want to,” she said firmly, and there was a strength in her voice that surprised me. “I want to know what makes you feel good. I want to hear you make those sounds you make me make.” Her blush deepened. “Will you teach me?”
Christ.
I stared at her, feeling something shift in my chest. This beautiful, innocent woman who blushed at her own boldness was asking to learn my body, wanting to give rather than just receive.
“Are you sure?” I asked softly.
“I’m sure.” She met my eyes without flinching. “I care about you, Marley. I want this to be about both of us.”
The simplicity of her words hit me harder than any grand declaration could have. I leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
“I suppose I’ll be tutoring you on two subjects now,” I murmured against her warm skin, tracing lazy patterns on her shoulder. “I can teach you whatever you want to know.”
Her laugh rumbled through her chest. “Danke schön,” she said with exaggerated pronunciation.
I lifted my head, eyebrows raised. “Oh? And who’s been teaching you German?”
“Duolingo,” she admitted sheepishly, then burst into giggles. “That little green owl has been terrorising me for weeks. I thought I’d impress you with my language skills.”
