Player(32)

“I’m sorry, Val,” he said with a gentleness that made my heart ache.

“It’s all right, really. I went to prom with my best friend, and we had way more fun than I would have had with some bass clarinet player,” I said on a laugh. “He’d asked me, but Franco eavesdropped on a call wherein the poor kid sang ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails and got his face beat in for saying he wanted to fuck me like an animal.” Sam laughed as I continued, “And by the time I got to college, I was fine. I’d had plenty of time to get used to myself and learn to love myself. To be independent and self-sufficient. I dated some in college, but nothing serious. Just enough to lose my virginity and have at least a little experience. So, there it is. That’s why. I’m not gonna pretend I’m not a little fucked up. But this is why I need your help.”

“You sure I’m helping?”

“Are you kidding, Sam? The last few weeks have been some of the best of my life, and it’s thanks to you. You were right—practice makes perfect. I’m less scared at the prospect of dating than I’ve ever been, and it’s because you make me brave.”

“I didn’t have to do much, Val. You’re braver than you know.”

We were interrupted by our waiter and two steaming plates. And Sam turned the conversation to lighter things. But I didn’t miss his gaze, heavy with what, I didn’t know. As curious as I was, part of me knew how dangerous finding out would be.





An hour later, we found ourselves walking toward my place, Sam’s arm around my shoulders, my body tucked into his side. I had learned not to question his affection, chalking it up to another teachable moment, the feeling of what a date should be like. It was all part of the lessons, that was all.

I wondered how far our lessons would extend. How many dates would we go on? How many lessons would we have? And how far would the pretense go?

Would it turn to the physical? Because for all my worldly experience, I was wildly unpracticed.

My arm wound around Sam’s narrow waist, the scent of him all over me. And I realized I wouldn’t hate those kinds of lessons. Not one little bit.

The brownstone stoop came closer with every step until there we were, standing on the sidewalk. I faced him. He faced me. The air between us crackled with anticipation.

We both moved at once, him opening his arms for a hug and me offering my hand for a shake. With a laugh, he brought his hand down to meet mine as mine rose for a hug.

“Come here,” he said, still laughing as he grabbed me and pulled me into his chest. His arms wrapped around me, the feeling so divine, so comforting and right, a sigh of contentment slipped out of me and into the cold autumn night.

For a long moment, we stayed just like that, saying nothing. I finally loosened my grip. He didn’t.

And then I made a terrible mistake.

I looked up from the circle of his arms and met his eyes.

Polished wood. Honey in sunshine. Sand in the sunset. Those eyes were on fire, his pupils open and black as ink. His lips, wide and dusky and masculine, his breath catching in his chest.

I couldn’t breathe at all.

“I think you should teach me how to kiss.” The words left me in a breathy rush so fast, they bounced off his lips and brushed my face again.

His big hand slid up my ribs, up my arm, and cupped my cheek. “Val,” he said, the word thick with emotion—regret, refusal, wishes, desire.

“Hear me out,” I said, taking a breath. “It’s important to know when there’s chemistry, right? How do I know if there’s more there? If I should want to kiss him, if I should want to sleep with him? How do I know it’s even a good kiss? I don’t know, but I think you could show me.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t know how to tell a good kiss from a bad one?”

I shook my head. “I’ve been kissed, sure. Dozens of times. But I can’t seem to remember a single one.”

His inhale was sharp. Somehow, we were closer.

“Please,” I begged softly. “Will you teach me? Will you show me, just once?”

“Just once,” he said like a prayer, his eyes on my lips as he inched closer.

“Just once,” I promised, the words hanging between us for a heartbeat.

And just when I thought he’d refuse, his lips crashed into mine.

For a moment, I was lost in the shock of sensation, the fact of his mouth on mine, the demand and sweet relief. And I parted my lips to grant him entry, sighed into his mouth as his tongue tangled with mine. Our bodies were caught in an updraft, twisting together, burning like a torch. His lips—my God, had I gone my whole life without his lips on mine?—opened wider, his hand turning my face to an angle that let him in, let him take what he wanted, anything he wanted. And I couldn’t breathe without breathing him, couldn’t feel my heartbeat without feeling his against my ribs, mine thudding from inside of me like it was reaching for him.

The depth of the kiss ebbed, then slowed. And, to my deepest regret, stopped with the coming together of his lips, the tilt of his head to bring his forehead to mine. His nose brushed the bridge of mine, and I wanted to open my eyes, wanted to see his lips, his face, his eyes. But I didn’t want to find out it hadn’t been real.

Just once.

And that would have to be enough.

I finally parted my heavy lids with the regret of a thousand lifetimes.