When My Heart Joins the Thousand(86)

Suddenly he seems very interested in his own bare feet. “You don’t have to say that.”

I kiss a jagged scar on his collarbone, and his breath shivers in his throat. My lips brush against a scar on his left pectoral. His chest heaves as I kiss another scar, then another. I take his hand in mine and kiss the palm. When our lips meet, I taste salty tears.

His hands slide over my skin. When his palm settles over my left breast, I push into the touch.

I want more. I want to touch him, to feel him respond to me.

My hand drifts down to his boxers, and his muscles tense.

“My legs are still—”

“You won’t have to move your legs. You won’t have to do anything. Just let me.”

He looks baffled. Then his eyes widen as realization sinks in. “You want to . . .”

“Yes.”

He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly. He seems to be struggling for control. “Alvie . . .” His eyes open, and he reaches out to touch my face and tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“You aren’t asking,” I reply, a touch of impatience in my voice. “I want to.” I kneel beside him on the bed, feeling suddenly uncertain. “Do you not want it.”

“Of course I do,” he blurts out, then bites his lower lip. “It’s just . . .” His voice softens. “I want our first time to be more than that for you. It shouldn’t be about pleasing me. It should be something perfect, something you can remember for—”

I grip his wrists and pin them down to the bed. “Stanley.” He blinks up at me. “For once in your life, stop being selfless and let me suck your cock.”

His eyes go so wide I can see the whites all around. “Okay,” he says, breathless.

I release his wrists and examine his tented boxers. Carefully, I ease them down, and for a moment, I just look at him.

I’m well familiar with male anatomy, of course. I’ve seen photos. But this is different. This is Stanley.

My heart is beating fast, my mouth dry, and I realize that I’m nervous. Of course. I’ve never done anything like this. Before I met him, I’d never allowed myself to get close enough to anyone to even consider it. After opening my mind to him and telling him the darkest secrets of my past, physical contact shouldn’t feel so overwhelmingly significant.

Our eyes meet. There’s an expression on his face I have no words for. It calms me, somehow, to know that this is just as new for him. I rest my hands on his slender thighs. “Are you ready.”

He nods. I swallow a few times, trying to generate some saliva, and lower my head.

He tenses briefly, then relaxes. Surrendering, trusting.

Once I let go of my anxiety, it’s not difficult. I lose myself in it, my mind a daze of concentration, noting his responses and adjusting my movements accordingly. I listen to everything; the little hitches and shivers of his breath, the soft, husky groans rising from his throat, the rustle of sheets as he shifts.

Stanley never lets himself relax. Not like this. I didn’t realize, until this moment, how much I’ve longed to see him this way, with all his guards down—not worrying or thinking or distracted by concern over me, not doubting himself or striving to be worthy. Just lost in feeling, in his own nerves. Somewhere deep in my body, there’s a pulse, a growing ache. I ignore it, pushing all those sensations into a corner of my mind, leaving the rest of it a cool, efficient computer.

When his eyelids slip shut, I freeze. I need to see his eyes; I need all the available data, to know if I’m doing something wrong. I lift my head long enough to say, “Keep them open.”

His eyelids snap up. And I lower my head again.

His muscles tense beneath my palm, then clench. His breathing grows faster. “Alvie,” he gasps. “I—I’m gonna—” He cries out.

I pull back, not quite fast enough, and double over in a fit of coughing. Eyes watering, I retreat to the bathroom to rinse out my mouth and drink some water from the tap. When I return, he starts stammering apologies. I silence him with a kiss, then lay my head on his chest. His heart is still pounding. After a moment, it begins to slow. He rests his hand on my back and murmurs, “That felt really good.”

My head is buzzing. I feel the way I did after my first few sips of wine, before it started to cloud my head. Light. Pleasantly warm.

I did that, I think. I made him feel that.

He reaches out to touch my face, fingertips brushing over my cheekbone. He tucks a lock of damp hair behind my ear. “How do you feel? Are you— I mean—” His eyes move in small flickers, searching my face. “Do you want anything?”

“Like what.”

He touches me through my jeans—a light, soft touch.

My heartbeat quickens.

It would be easy to stop now. To retreat, reassess, find my center of control. But I don’t want to stop.

Slowly I remove my jeans, then my underwear.

At first he is gentle, almost cautious. I hold still, barely breathing, as he explores me . . . then, gradually, I begin to relax. I find myself arching into his touch, like a cat, my body moving on its own.

The sensations are strange. New. But not bad. There’s pressure, some stinging. I squirm.

“Alvie?” he says, his voice low and anxious. “Are you—”