“I’m trying to loosen my inhibitions,” she explains self-consciously.
“You don’t have to do that. We can just go slow,” I say before taking a sip from my glass. It’s crisp, not too sweet, pretty nice, but it’s not like I know anything about wine. Mostly, I want to look relaxed so that she relaxes. That works sometimes.
“It’s not that. Well, there is that.” She looks like there’s more to say, but she’s not sure how.
“You’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like?” I ask, because from my perspective, that’s all that matters.
Some of the tension leaks from her. She stands straighter and nods. “I can do that. Can you?”
That makes me smile. I’m an easygoing person, and there isn’t much that bothers me. But I like that she cares, and not because I was sick and I’ll never be the same but because I’m a person. “I can do that.”
We start cooking then. I cut the ingredients. She adds them to the frying pan and stirs. We talk about everything and nothing, much like our text conversations. I learn that she’s a vio
linist with the San Francisco Symphony, but she’s taken a leave of absence. She doesn’t explain why, and I don’t press her. I tell her that I started a children’s apparel company with my best friend, Michael, because we both love little kids. She asks if I want to have kids someday, and I change the subject. She notices, but she doesn’t push me.
When the noodles are ready, she turns the stove off, and I drain the water from the pot using the lid and reach around her to pour them into the skillet with the mushrooms. I’m right behind her again, close enough to touch her, though I’m being careful not to. I think I went a little too fast earlier. But it’s hard to resist the curve of her shoulder, the graceful arch of her neck, the fine line of her jaw. She even has pretty ears. I want to trace them with the tip of my tongue.
I try to keep my thoughts on neutral things as she scrapes the last noodles out of the pot with the wooden spoon. One is stuck to the bottom, and I lean close to get a better look at it—
And her lips press against mine.
My heart jumps. A current jolts through me. My blood rushes. I try to be gentle—she’s so soft, so perfect—but I want to devour her. Barely restrained, I sweep my tongue into her mouth, and she tastes like wine, only sweeter. She gasps. I could get drunk off that sound; maybe I do. Leaning into the kiss, into me, she touches her tongue to mine. Everything in me tightens and clamors to be closer, and I pour that aching need into the kiss.
It goes on and on, kiss after kiss, for how long, I don’t know. When we part, our breathing is ragged. Anna looks exactly like she’s just been kissed long and hard. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than her. The pot is still in my hands, dinner is getting cold, and I don’t care. All I want is more.
I take her lips in another greedy kiss, and she’s there with me, kissing me back, letting me in. Until she turns away and presses clumsy fingers to her mouth.
“We should talk.” Her voice is throaty, the goddamn sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
I hear her, but my body sways toward her anyway, craving another taste. It takes effort to stop myself, but I manage. “Okay.”
Her chin goes up a notch, and her expression turns stubborn. After a long pause, where she seems to struggle against herself, she finally says, “I don’t want to give you a blow job.”
My eyebrows shoot up on their own, and I stifle a surprised laugh—that’s an immature response, especially when she looks so serious. “That’s . . . perfectly fine.” Maybe it’s even a relief. Yes, on second thought, it’s definitely a relief, and it’s better that I didn’t have to ask for it myself.
She gives me a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”
I can’t help chuckling. “Yeah, it’s just a blow job. If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it. It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re wrong. It is a big deal. I’m supposed to like giving blow jobs. A partner’s pleasure is supposed to give me pleasure, and if it doesn’t, that means I’m selfish. In books I’ve read, women enjoy it so much sometimes they burst into spontaneous orgasm.”
“Wait, what books are you reading?”
She ignores the question and says, “On the flip side, I don’t need you to . . . you know.” When I shake my head, clueless as to what she means, she blushes sunburn red and awkwardly clarifies, “I don’t need you to give me oral sex. I don’t want to feel obligated to reciprocate, and it never works for me anyway.”
That almost seems like a challenge to me, and I ask, “What if I want to? Because I like it, not because I want you to do it back?” Because I do like it. It turns me on. I love the sounds women make when I go down on them, the way they move when they get close, their smell, their taste. It’s fucking hot.
Looking pained and frustrated, she says, “It really won’t work, and I’ll still feel pressured to return the favor. Can you just please—”
“I don’t need it,” I say quickly. “I won’t try to push it on you. I promise.”
She searches my face. “You’re really okay with this?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you secretly judging me?”
I smile and fondly trail my fingertips down the side of her face. “No, I’m not. I like having everything out in the open. It makes things a lot easier.”