The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

Heavy on top of me, he heaves a sigh. “You kill me,” he says. “You literally fucking kill me.”

I smile up at the ceiling and give in. I put my hand on the back of his shoulder.

“Mmm,” he moans right away. “That feels good.”

I massage him a little. “How’s this?”

“Perfect. Never stop.” He nuzzles my neck. “I’m crushing you.”

“No. I mean yes, but I don’t mind.”

“Good. I don’t think I can move. I might fall asleep here.”

I don’t want him to move. I’m sleepy. Sated. It’s been years since I’ve felt this comfortable. I’ve never had three orgasms in one day, much less in a matter of hours. Having Andrew on top of me should make me nervous, but it’s having the opposite effect—he’s safe. If Reggie were to walk in right now, I’d be protected.

Why did I think that?

It occurs to me that living in Reggie’s apartment, sleeping in the bed we used to share, has kept him on my mind more than I’d like to admit. There’s always a chance, however small, he could show up uninvited. No matter what I think, I’m not safe. Not even from Andrew. Getting too comfortable is a mistake I made with Reggie, and one I don’t want to make twice.

My chest tightens. I’m sweating, and not just because of our marathon fucking. I try to breathe, but I can’t get a lungful. It was fine, playing around, but now that we’ve had enough sex to satisfy our libidos, there’s nothing left for us but emotionally dangerous territory. I push Andrew’s shoulders, but he doesn’t budge. “Andrew.”

“Hmm?”

“Get off,” I say. “Please get off.”

“Off?” I hear the drowsiness in his voice, but he rolls over onto his back.

I sit forward and breathe deeply before leaning over to my bedside table. Hands trembling, I manage to get a cigarette lit. With my first drag, I close my eyes and sigh.

“You smoke?” he asks.

“Of course. Not a lot, but this is New York after all.”

“Pass it.”

I look over my shoulder and give it to him.

“Fuck,” he says. “I forgot how good it is right after sex.”

“You quit?”

“Mostly, when we had Bell. I still do now and then, but only when she’s not around. And never in the house.”

I look forward again. “That’s why I don’t have kids, and I don’t want them.”

“Because you’d have to quit smoking?”

“Sacrifice. I sacrifice for work, but not for anything or anyone else. Not anymore.”

He touches my back, running a calloused, warm palm up my spine, and gives me the cigarette. “Come here.”

I almost do. I almost come when he calls. It would be so easy to curl up next to him, inhale his soapy skin, fall asleep in his arms. In the midst of a harrowing divorce from someone I thought I loved, it shouldn’t be this easy. How can good sex erase my memory so quickly? It can’t. I meant what I said—I don’t trust myself. “No.”

“If you’re going to fight me some more, at least cuddle with me while you do it.”

I take another drag of the cigarette and put it out. “You should go.”

After a few seconds of silence, he asks, “What?”

“You have to go.”

“Why? Because I want to hold you?”

“No. Well, yeah, I guess. That’s not in our arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” I hear the smile in his voice. “We didn’t exactly sign a contract.”

“Have you changed your mind?” I ask, looking at him over my shoulder. “Do you want this to turn into something more?”

He’s mid-yawn, but stops abruptly and shuts his mouth. His expression changes as he realizes I’m serious, and he sits up. “No. I don’t see how spending one night in the same bed means more.”

“It’s different for me. I’m a woman. I can’t turn it on and off as easily as you.”

He looks over at me, his eyebrows drawn. “That’s a little sexist.”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it? I want you to stay, and I want to sleep in the nook of your shoulder, and because I want to, I can’t. Do you understand?”

He blinks a few times and scrubs his hands over his face. “Spending the night would be too much for you.”

“Yes.”

“You’re scared.”

I nod.

He looks down at the bedspread as if he’s deciding. “I understand, but . . . I thought we’d have until the morning. I’ve got a long train ride home, and it’s after midnight.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t risk it. And I know you don’t want me to.”

Finally, he nods slowly, staring straight ahead. “Yeah. Okay.” He glances at me again. “For the record, I don’t want to go. I’d really like to stay with you tonight.”

“And that doesn’t scare you?”

“I guess.” He pulls back the covers. “I can handle it, but if you don’t think you can, I’ll respect that.”

“Thank you.” I get up with him and go into my closet for my robe. When I come out, he’s in his t-shirt, heading into the kitchen for his pants. Again, I get to watch his perfect ass. Am I an idiot? Should I be thankful for this one night? Would it really hurt to spend a few more hours with him, wake up to his gorgeous face, roll over, and make love while we’re still half asleep?

My answer is in my questions.

Andrew and I are adults. We aren’t in our twenties anymore, and we know what we don’t want better than what we do.

I follow him into the kitchen and watch him button his jeans. After he runs a hand through his hair, it sticks up slightly longer on one side. I frown. “You may need someone to fix your hair.”

“I love it.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “You can’t even see it.”

“I don’t need to.” He takes a few steps to close the distance between us, bends down to hug my waist, and lifts me so we’re face to face. “It’s my souvenir.”

“Andrew,” I warn. “Put me down.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t move. “First, one last kiss.”

I peck him once on the lips. “There. Put me down.”

“Un-uh.” He walks us to the front door. “As far as last kisses go, that ranks pretty low. Disappointing, even.”

With a sigh and a reluctant smile, I wrap my arms around his neck. “Fine.”

“Now the legs,” he prompts.

“If by ‘one last kiss’ you mean sex . . .”

He chuckles, then cups my ass so I can close my legs around his waist. “That’s better. Come here.”

As if under some kind of spell, I lean in for him. He licks along my bottom lip, and we open our mouths to each other. I can’t tell which of us is moaning, or if we both are, and just like that, it’s over like he promised. Andrew sets me back on my feet.

“There,” he says. “That’s a last kiss I won’t forget.”

“To go with a first kiss I won’t forget.”

“Exactly.” He smiles down at me, and the silence stretches between us. It’s unfair that the more I want him to stay, the surer I am he can’t. I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying never mind. “Right,” he says. “Bye.”

“Don’t fall asleep on the train. There’re some real weirdoes out there this time of night.”

“Thanks,” he says with a hoarse laugh. “Your concern seems genuine.”

I grin. If anyone can handle himself, it’s him. I’m not worried. “Night.”

He chucks me under the chin. “Goodnight, Amelia.”

EIGHT

ANDREW

I’m one of those assholes who likes Mondays as much as Saturdays. Even though it’s never easy to send Bell off to school, I love my work, and there’s nowhere I belong more than at the garage. The best part of my day is right now, when my two worlds collide.

I stand on the corner, smoking my last cigarette of the day. I’m normally able to control my nicotine cravings, but a

fter my cigarette with Amelia, I’ve been finding it harder to resist.

It tastes good. It calms me.

It reminds me of lying in bed next to her.

When a school bus rounds the corner, I put out the cigarette and squint, looking for Bell through the square, tinted windows. The bus stops, and she comes catapulting out, a bundle of energy in a pink and purple backpack. I lift her up.

The driver smiles. “Afternoon, sugar,” she says.

I wave and carry Bell down the block. “Aunt Sadie says you pretend that you quit smoking, but you didn’t really,” Bell informs me. “And she says you have to stop for real.”