I linger for a minute in the hot water, wishing I hadn’t asked. Because she just made me hopeful that there’s more between us than chance and gratitude.
When I go back out into the bedroom, she’s not there. Wind stirs the curtains at the sliding glass door, and I realize she’s on the balcony. I can hear her talking to someone. She’s on the phone?
I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I have to. I push closer to the door so I can hear her.
She laughs. “It was fucking huge, Peck,” she says. “Like, monstrous. I’m going to be sore for days.”
She pauses, like she’s listening. When she starts to talk again, there are no jokes or innuendos in her tone. “Yeah, it was good. He was kind. Caring. Hot. He kind of took over my body and put me where he wanted me to be. And he let me be on top. Then he held on to my hips and made me come like crazy with his wicked awesome thumb.”
My cheeks heat, but a grin pulls at the corners of my lips at the same time. I shake my head. Do women always talk like this? Or just these women?
“I like him. A lot,” she says, her voice wistful. “I don’t know… Tomorrow, I think? I don’t know what happens next... Hey, Peck,” she says. She waits a beat. “I really like him. I shouldn’t, right?”
No, you should. You totally should. I hope she does.
“I know,” she says. “I’m being careful.”
I doubt she’s talking about condoms. I think she’s talking about her heart.
“Hey!” she cries. “I came before he did. Is that normal?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
“Really? So that was okay?”
I push away from the door and put on some pajama pants.
I give her some privacy, even though I want to listen in. She’s looking for validation and trying to get answers. I assume her past is the reason why. But this may just be something that women do. I have no idea.
She opens the door and comes back in. She glances sheepishly at me. “Peck,” she says. “Checking up on me.”
“What did you tell her?”
She rolls her eyes. “Like you didn’t just hear every word.” But she’s smiling, so I don’t think she minds.
“You could talk to me about all those questions.”
She waves a breezy hand in the air. “I actually just wanted to brag a little.” Her cheeks color. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I shrug. “I suppose if you have to tell someone I got mad skills in the sack, I can stand it.”
She giggles and picks up a room service menu. “I’m starving.”
I roll over next to her so that I can look at it with her. I pick out a burger and so does she, and we call for room service.
“So, it makes me really happy that you came before I did, and that I didn’t hurt you or scare you or make you feel funny, and I’m stoked that you enjoyed it enough to tell Peck about it.” I pull her down into my lap. “If I have to be honest, I was scared senseless that I wouldn’t be able to do any of it right. It has been a long time and my body was different the last time I did it.” I heave out a breath. “There. That’s better.”
She grins at me. “I like you very much.”
I’m glad she does. Because if I’m not already in love with her, I’m going to be on my way there very soon. I know it has only been days. But don’t all great loves start that way?
***
After we’ve eaten dinner and watched a movie, I roll onto my side and pull her against me. She’s on her back. I lift the edge of her shirt and she covers my hand with hers. “Me touching you here bothers you, doesn’t it?” I ask her.
She takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut. “When I was there, in the foster home, he used to come into my room. My foster mother thought he was coming into my room to tuck me in, and she would make a big deal about sending him to me after my bath. He would start by lifting the edge of my shirt, and then he would go higher. He would say very quietly, ‘Be a good girl now,’ as he touched me. ‘Be a good girl and don’t make noise or we’ll make Mommy really mad.’ ”
I freeze. A red haze clouds the corners of my vision. I pull my hand from under her shirt. “I’ll never touch you there again.”
But she takes my hand in hers, lifts her shirt and puts my palm flat between her boobs. “I don’t mind it when you do it. But I have to get used to it. So be gentle and slow and I’ll tell you if something is bothering me.” She tilts her head so she can look into my eyes. “Okay?” she prompts.
“Okay,” I say quietly. I drag my fingertips beneath her boobs, tracing the curve of her breast.
“That feels really nice,” she tells me. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth. Her nipples pebble against the thin fabric of her T-shirt.
“Can I pull your shirt up?” I ask, and I nuzzle the side of her cheek with the tip of my nose. She grins.
“You don’t have to ask. I’ll tell you if you do something I don’t like.” She turns her head and kisses me really quickly. “I like replacing the bad memories with good ones. So keep going.”
I lift her T-shirt over her naked boobs, and she closes her eyes tightly. “So fucking pretty,” I tell her. She’s like softness and steel, in a pretty, pretty package.
I bend my head and take her nipple into my mouth, and she makes a mewling noise right by my ear. Her nipples are small and pert, not much more than puffy little tips to her alabaster pillows.