Page 43 of The Time It Takes

Was I being weird? Should I just say yes?

The lights in here were so bright, so harsh. There would be no way to miss any flaws in my pale, naked body. Oh god.

I debated about the underwear, then gave up on the idea and left them. I wrapped a towel around my waist, as he'd done, and sauntered out, putting effort into looking confident, maybe even sexy, even though I didn't exactly feel sexy. I felt about as confident as I had when I was that scrawny teen walking the halls of school, dreading to find out the way my body wasn't good enough today.

He was sitting on the bed. Oh. He'd put clothes on. He gave me a nervous smile and got up. "You look great, Cole. Okay? We don't have to do anything tonight. But you do look great. You always do."

Was he reading my mind now? Clearly, not all of it. I swallowed back the feeling of disappointment at his attire and spoke. "I'm not looking for an out, Arlie. I was looking forward to tonight. Are you having second thoughts?"

Relief flickered across his face. "No, just. You sounded so nervous. And you smell nervous now." His gaze flicked across my chest, then back to my face. "I know your smells pretty well."

I thought if I was more with it, I'd have a sexy quip about that, suggesting he smell something, or that he didn't know me well enough yet, or something better. But I didn't have any fancy quips. I just had myself—waiting, nervous, ready, afraid.

Afraid? Maybe. Maybe it was eagerness. The fluttering in my belly wasn't too clear about what it actually meant.

"You don't need to give me an out. You're not pushing me into this. I'm interested. You can read me, but not completely. Yeah, I'm nervous. But I'm not putting this off, unless you're really sure you're not ready—and if you are, say so, but don't put it on me."

He looked so proud of me, so pleased and excited. He opened his arms. Was I really giving off such anxious vibes, or was he just not as good at reading me as he thought he'd be? I moved to embrace him. My towel slipped. Great, there I was, all freshly washed and naked, pressing up against him, fully clothed.

Okay, it was actually kind of hot.

"Get them off," I told him, my hands on his jeans. I didn't know I could be so pushy and intense.

We got his pants off, and then the rest of it. And soon, I was stretched out with him in bed, rubbing up against him, laughing, enjoying the feeling of his body, warm and real and strong and alive. He wasn't shaped like a woman. He was shaped like himself—and I enjoyed the feeling of his masculine thighs, his strong careful hands, his powerful torso, his heavy cock. I liked the feeling of our leg fuzz rubbing together. I liked the way he kissed me, the way he touched me and slowly lost control.

It wasn't everything I'd thought it would be. It was different, and better, and more. It was more real, more present, more human and deeply physical than any imaginary pants-off session could be. It was humbling and sweet and raunchy and exhilarating. And yeah, it was awkward. And warm, and I felt so close to him, and satisfied, and like I was good enough, like he actually liked me, he wasn't being nice, he didn't find me secretly disgusting. It was pure awe and enjoyment in his face—no secret shadow of regret or disappointment.

Maybe I was new to this. But all the same. He liked my hands on him. He liked kissing me, and touching me, and he sure as hell liked it when we got off together.

Well. Me too. I lay back next to him, trying to catch my breath.

And strangely, I felt like I might cry. Because that had been so, so good. Why had it taken so damn long? I don't mean the time between kissing and going away together. No, that had been a nice buildup, a way to be sure, to make a plan and get ready. But why had I waited so long in my life, and so long with Arlie?

If I could've been ready sooner—even a bit sooner—maybe it wouldn't feel like such a waste. My life up till now felt like it was stale crumbs. Yes, even being wanted by beautiful women. Even having pretty good sex and lots of fun experiences in bed. Because I hadn't known—and hadn't let myself know—what I apparently wanted. Or at least preferred. Because god damn it, this sex—this easy, fun, laughing-together-in-awkwardness-and-joy getting off that we'd just done was up there with the best times in my life.

If my first time with a guy—my partner—was as good as the best sex I'd had in my life, that meant something.

Dick. I liked dick, and I'd told myself all this time that couldn't possibly be. Shouldn't I have known before?

I closed my eyes against the tears.I hoped he wouldn't notice. I didn't want to talk about it. But of course, he was Arlie. He noticed. He pulled me to him, into his arms, and held me.

He rubbed my back. "I've got you."

Yeah. He did.

"Should we talk about it?"he asked gently. "I know we both enjoyed that. But you seem kinda sad. Are you having regrets?"

I shrugged. "Guess I'm feeling dumb for not realizing. This was so good. And I waited so long to find out."

"You took the time you needed," he said, pulling me in for another embrace. "Some things can't be rushed."