“I’m just trying to protect us and our families. It feels so good, but I know it’s a huge deal.”
He bends when I say this, brushing his mouth over mine. It feels like the next sentence in the conversation, the unspoken Trust me, okay?
We’re at the Boathouse now, and he turns, reaching forward and pushing the squeaky door open to reveal the dark hollow space. I’m not really sure why, but seeing the Boathouse tonight with Andrew, under these circumstances, makes the cold blackness tantalizing rather than eerie and uninviting. Yes, it’s freezing in here, but I know in that far corner there is a pile of sleeping bags, and in a few minutes, I will be cuddled inside them with Andrew pressed all alongside me.
What if we have sex?
The word—sex—flashes into my head, buzzing fluorescent and neon. Only a matter of hours ago, I discovered what it felt like to kiss him. But here we are, no longer children, friends our entire lives. If the intensity between us is anything like it was in the closet and pantry, and with over a decade of pent-up lust trapped beneath my skin, I don’t know how we’ll keep from ripping all of our clothes off as soon as we lock the door.
The door seals shut, and Andrew reaches past me, turning the dead bolt. The click echoes once, contrasting with the staccato of my heartbeat.
“Come on.” He leads me to the back of the room and turns on the little lamp in the corner, illuminating a cone of space with a soft yellow glow. “Ta-da.”
When he steps back, I see he’s arranged the pile of sleeping bags on the floor, and it takes me only a few seconds to realize it’s because the cot is really only wide enough for one body. But by zipping the flannel-carcass sleeping bags together, he’s made a cozy little bed for two. There are pillows propped against the wall to lean against, if we want. He’s even brought a couple of bottles of my favorite sparkling water out here from the kitchen.
I must have hearts in my eyes when I look at him. When did he even do this?
“You said you didn’t have beverages.”
“I said I don’t have any nightcaps,” he says, grinning, “but I do know what you like.”
I’m trying to keep my brain from doing it, but a tiny flash works through, of the handful of guys in my past who would be hard pressed to remember how much ice I like in my drink or name one of my favorite anythings, let alone procure it for me.
Without any careful calculation—only gratitude and want—I move right up against him. My arms go around his neck and there’s no hesitation on his end, either; my God, it’s like an explosion in reverse, a melting. His arms pull me in, and his mouth comes over mine with a laugh-moan of happy relief. This feeling is sunshine. There’s no pause like there was in the closet, no careful consideration of who might find us. Here, there’s only the heat of his smiling mouth, the tiny relieved exhale.
Andrew turns us, pressing me against the wall. Playful and sweet and light Andrew is washed away in the shadow of the man in front of me who smiles still, but it’s dark and exciting. His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush to him, letting me feel that he’s still just as hungry for this as I am.
We move to the floor. My shirt is slid up and over my head. I finally get to push that soft flannel off his shoulders and run my hands down his arms, feeling the smooth definition there, the bunching of tension in his back as he hovers over me, pressing just where I want him.
The neon sign is back. Sex. Sex. Sex.
We’ve been in the Boathouse for maybe four minutes, and we’re half-undressed. It’s not that I’m surprised, but . . . I don’t want to be stupid.
“Andrew,” I mumble against his mouth.
He pulls back, and even in the dim light I can see the worry on his face. “What?”
Do I say it? Or do we figure it out as we go? But honestly, that’s never a good idea. The heat of the moment is a real thing, and we are right in the middle of it. “This is awkward, okay, but I don’t have . . .”
He waits for me to finish the sentence, but suddenly it feels too presumptuous. Too