thing, you and I. Just casual sex. Have you had casual sex before?”
No, never. I shook my head.
He seemed amused, a little pleased. “So this will be your first time, in a way. I like that. It’s a turn-on.”
His fingertips drifted over my bare shoulders, leaving a trail of goose bumps in languid circles. I hugged the door, suddenly wishing that I were the kind of woman who had casual sex. That I could turn around and let the towel drop and pretend I wanted this too. It would make this easier. Instead I could only shiver against the door, shudder under his touch.
“Lock the door,” he murmured against my ear. “I don’t want to be interrupted.”
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.
There are some men you just don’t say no to. That was what the waitress had said to me, and I understood it now. I wouldn’t say no, and he wouldn’t force me. I would go along with it, and everything would be consensual.
Just like a date. Casual sex.
My hand shook violently as I reached up and turned the lock sideways. It didn’t change our situation at all. I couldn’t leave before it was locked, and I still couldn’t. But it felt different, as if I had exercised my choice. As if I’d consented, and I had. He had my permission, even though he’d proven he didn’t need it.
He trailed his hand down my arm, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. Even though he only touched me in one place, it felt intimate. Though he didn’t squeeze, I felt fragile. Breakable.
Leading me to the bed, he pushed me gently to sit. I tightened the towel around myself, and he let me. I’d expected him to push me down, to tear the towel off and have sex with me. But I always seemed to overestimate his penchant for force. It was something about his presence, brute strength combined with the cunning to use it well. He wasn’t afraid of violence but neither was he overly fond of it. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
He sat down beside me, his light caresses still restricted to my arms, my shoulders. Safe places, as if we were still getting acquainted. As if my comfort mattered at all.
“Tell me about your boyfriends,” he said.
“What d-d-do you want to know?”
Oh no. I hadn’t stuttered since I was a kid. My mother had tried to frighten it out of me, but that only made it worse. Eventually I’d grown out of it…right around the time I’d gotten my book on Niagara Falls. Now my dreams deserted me along with my composure.
He raised his eyebrow, a sign he had heard my stutter, but he made no comment on it. Instead he asked, “How many have you had? How far did you let them go with you?”
I thought the phrasing was odd, even if it was technically accurate. How far I let them go, like he recognized my dominion over my body. Maybe he considered this the same thing; maybe it was. I was letting him do it to me. I was letting this happen.
Swallowing, I said, “My first boyfriend was in eighth grade. We only dated for a few months and never really saw each other outside school.”
“Did you fuck him?”
The question was blunt, and I flinched. “No. We d-didn’t do that. We would meet sometimes, outside the school during gym class.”
“You made out.” He smirked.
The arrogant action didn’t subtract from his attractiveness; it enhanced it. Up close, I realized he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever met. I never would have looked at him twice, mostly because of his age. He looked about ten years older than me. I never would have expected him to look twice at me either, but then I had always worn baggy clothes and hung at the edges of a crowd with my mother before we made a quick exit.
“Did you let him touch your tits?
“Yes.”
“Under your shirt or just over?”
“Over at f-first. And then he started—” I broke off as he touched my breasts through the towel, just two fingers on the top slope, then around the underside.
“He started what?” he prompted, still stroking, soft caresses on the rough fabric.
I swallowed, willing myself not to tremble. “Then he started reaching under my clothes.”
He tugged the towel down. I loosened my hold, letting the cloth slide down my breasts. The hem of the towel caught on my nipples, baring the slope of my breasts but no more. It was almost more obscene this way than if I’d been naked, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the towel down.
Instead I stared into the darkness at the shadowy curtains that I hadn’t drawn closed while the weight of the wet towel tugged at the tender skin of my nipples. He drew his finger over the tops of my breasts.