I think about it, while I watch the coffee drip into the porcelain mug. How sex really can be this monumental thing that changes you or connects you to a person, if you want it to be.
How it can be this thing you do with another person or as many people as you want as many times as you want to feel good.
All my formative memories were with one person. And that’s not a bad thing, not in general, I don’t think. But it was for me. Because that one person never bothered to get to know me. He didn’t care to try and understand what I might like and what I might not. We fumbled through learning about each other when we were kids in college, and Scott never wanted to grow andchange or try something new. He didn’t care that I wasn’t even sure what I did or didn’t like, and I don’t think I cared enough to tell him.
I think about what it’s like, to get to know someone, when I perch on the edge of the kitchen island, legs swinging beneath me, so I can watch the sun inch higher in the sky across the lake through the window.
Miller spent all night getting to know me.
At first, in that seat on the boat.
But inside, afterwards—again. His hands guiding me back down onto his lap, my knees digging into the chair cushions. The stretch of me around him while he murmured encouragements in my ear, his hands smoothing my hair away from my face so he could look at me. And when we started to move together again, his voice hoarse and eyes hazy while he told me how good I was doing, how good I made him feel, too. The way he promised to catch me no matter what, that it was safe to let go here with him.
Again, with his hand sliding between my thighs, fingers moving in small circles, his teeth tugging on my ear, his tongue swirling away the slight hurt while he moved, slow, assuredly, one arm banded around my chest to keep me upright over the arm of the couch.
And then, him above me, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other, his fingers interlaced with mine in this final, slower, almost lazy hello between two bodies who seemed like they might be the oldest of friends as the sky turned grey.
I think, while he was getting to know me, and my body was getting to know his, I started to get to know myself.
I’m watching a loon make slow, lazy circles near the undisturbed water by the dock when I hear his footsteps—tired and tentative—across the living room floor.
Glancing over my shoulder, I lift a hand in a silent wave, and Miller swallows, one hand raising too. Black athletic shortslift inches above his knees, and I can see red welts across his shoulders, a spot on his neck that looks tender, and the ghosts of my hands all over his bare chest and stomach.
A blush starts to rise on my cheeks, but his hand grips my jaw, and he brushes his mouth across mine before he leans against the kitchen table across from me.
“Hey.” His voice sounds like the early morning—rough, worn, still tinged with sleep like the sky. He looks almost shy when he drags his hand across the cut of his jaw, a flush sweeping up his cheeks.
“Hi.” I smile softly, shifting against the granite, but all my muscles feel tender, my thighs and between my legs still warm, and my smile tilts into a frown at the pinch. But I think it might be a nice feeling. No one’s ever spent so long exploring me that I had anything to show for it the next day.
His brows come together. “You’re not—sore, are you?”
“Not in a bad way.” I chew on the inside of my check.
He nods, eyes dropping to the floor before they find mine again, all the playful lines of Miller Colson-Burke serious. “There’s something I should have—uh—I’ve been thinking about this since last night. Can I ask you a question?”
“I think you just did.” I wrinkle my nose, but he stares, resolute, and I tip my head, fingers tapping on the porcelain of my coffee mug. “Of course. You can ask me anything.”
“Did he—like—did he, uh, go down on you?” Miller asks, scrubbing a hand across the back of his head. The curve of his bicep pulls taut alongside stretching triceps, carving winding paths of muscle, half hidden behind the sleep-mussed waves of his hair.
“What do you think?” I snort, but my heels slip against the smooth wood of the island, scrambling for purchase at the sight of him like that.
He nods, tugging on the ends of his hair before he stretches each arm across his chest. Stacks of abdominal muscle pull tight, too, with ridges of obliques looking like they could cut in the morning sunlight. “When was the last time someone did?”
I blink. “A long time ago.”
The column of his throat works, and the navy of his eyes disappears. “Can I?”
“What? You want to—” I think every single inch of my skin sets itself on fire.
Miller says nothing, taking a measured exhale when his eyes sweep over my body. They follow the set of my shoulders, down the curve of my chest, the dip of my waist where it meets my hips. He grips his chin when they land on my clenched thighs, and he’s already moving across the room before my feet can brush the island again.
He stops, the taper of his obliques whispering over my knees, and he reaches out, the cords of muscle in his forearm drawing a path down to his hand, broad and wide. Those fingers deftly wrapping around the coffee cup held loosely in my hand so he can set it beside me.
I can’t hear the resounding noise the porcelain makes against the granite over the sound of my own heart, and I don’t think I can see anything but the way his pupils eclipse his eyes. The tick of a muscle in his jaw, the cut of stubble drawing a line to his full lips, or the wave brushing his brow.
“Yeah, I fucking want to.” His voice feels like gravel.
Inhaling sharply, I start to shake my head. “I don’t ... know what I like.”
