While he processes this information, I pause, begging him again—this time silently—not to make me explain it. I don’t look at him. When he honors my requests, I continue, “I know it’s backwards; I know what that feels like, but I don’t know what it feels like to be kissed… romantically.” I manage to utter without dying of embarrassment.
After he’s been quiet for what feels like forever, I can’t stand it anymore. I look over at him. He’s studying me.
I swallow loudly.
“So,” he recaps finally, “You’ve done the things you don’t need anyone else’s assistance to do; but anything that requires more than one person will be totally new to you?”
His use of the word “will” gives me chills and makes me break into a sweat at the same time. I gulp. “Uh… yeah.”
“No pressure?” He tries to smile, but one side of his mouth doesn’t quite make it.
I stop waiting. Turning quickly, I brush my lips up against his, careful not to jam my mouth into his face. His eyelids droop, but he keeps his eyes open. As do I. It seems wrong to close my eyes and rob myself of the memory of what he looked like when I took my first kiss from him. His arms go around me; my arms rest against his chest then slide over his shoulders so I can press my breasts against him. Only when he deepens the kiss and closes his eyes do I close mine. And when his tongue thrusts into my mouth, I almost melt out of the kiss, sliding down his body and off the couch. Only his tight grip on me keeps me in position.
This is the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced; at least, in real life. I seriously underestimated its magnificence. And I think he’s a good kisser, although I’m not sure how I would know for certain. It sure feels good. Not slobbery. Not too much tongue, choking me (I always kind of wondered how that worked). Maybe my future fantasies will involve a satiny-tongued Brit, just not in the way that the old Fantasy Jude was. No talking necessary, please. Did that moaning noise just come from me?
I pull away and wipe my mouth. My eyelids feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each, but I manage to open them. After just a few seconds of heavy breathing, staring at that mouth and remembering what it was doing to me, I throw myself at him again, this time not worrying so much about mashing my face into his. That’s kind of the idea, actually.
I think a lot less during the second kiss. My lizard brain kicks in, I guess. And all it keeps saying is, “More, more, more.”
Then my hands receive some signals that tell them to unbutton Jude’s shirt. They do so, remarkably dexterously. I slide my hands against his surprisingly furry chest, which is very warm to the touch.
When my palms brush against his nipples, he makes an “Mmmphh” sound and wrenches his lips from mine with a wet sucking noise.
Smiling, I open my eyes. And freeze at the horrified look on his face. “What? What did I do wrong?” I ask, retreating to my corner of the couch and instinctively folding my arms across my chest.
Words don’t seem to be forming well in his brain. He shakes his head. “Uh… no. Nothing wrong. On the contrary,” he finally manages.
“Then why’d you stop?” I question him disbelievingly.
As he buttons his shirt, he replies, “Because I’m afraid that’s as far as I can go before I can’t stop.”
“So?” Relieved, I crawl across the cushions and rub against him. “Who asked you to stop?”
He lets me kiss the corner of his mouth but says, “Right. Well. I don’t think you should have your first kiss and your first… time… at the same… time.”
“I’m okay with it,” I assure him, trying to unbutton his shirt again.
Gently, he pushes my hand away, then the rest of me. “I’m not,” he insists, standing up. He shakes one of his legs and straightens the front of his shorts, showing me his back. Well, at least I know his lizard brain is on my side.
“You’re overthinking this,” I try persuading him. “Really. Lots of girls lose their virginity the same day they have their first kiss. They just happen to be a dozen years younger than me. Which is so much worse, when you think about it. I’m a grown woman; I know what I want. I know what I’m getting into.”
Apparently composed enough to face me again, he turns around. “What if I told you I wasn’t ready? That it has nothing to do with your being a virgin?”
I find that hard to believe, I think but don’t say. Instead, I tilt my head and wait for him to elaborate.
He runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t know… I feel like I don’t really know you, as odd as that sounds.”
I scoff. “You know me better than any other person on this planet!” I’m not including Dr. Marsh in this statement, but he doesn’t need to know anything about Dr. Marsh, period.
“I seriously doubt that.” Then he rushes to add when I start to assert the veracity of my claim, “Anyway, even if that’s true, it’s still not much. We seem to talk about me all the time, but when it comes time for you to reciprocate, you clam up.” He rubs his chin. “And I’m not really comfortable using a conversation with you about your sexual inexperience as foreplay.”
“So it is about my virginity!” I accuse.
“Partly,” he admits. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t. I’ve never consciously been someone’s first. It’s a bit daunting.”
Tears of frustration are building in my head. “Someone has to be the first,” I mumble, knowing it’s one of the
