like to take you up to my apartment. Now.” He adjusted his pants. “Unless you still want me to take you back to Jo’s?”
My body screamed: Take me anywhere. “Where do you live?”
“Right here.” He stood back and pointed to the edifice behind me. Confused by what he was saying, I jerked my head from the metal door back to him, and a telltale blush crept up his cheek. He looked away.
Had that been his plan all along? Did I care?
Was he looking for a one-night stand?
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d hooked up with a guy. Blind dates that turned into a second and third, leading eventually to a kind of inevitable night in his bed, followed by an awkward morning and a silent phone. I’d grown immune to the disappointment, but at least I’d gotten the sex out of it. Back when I’d gotten any sex at all.
Shane’s interest had seemed genuine, but now that he’d led me back to his place, I put the odds on never seeing him again, whether or not I slept with him. Of course, I wanted to see him again, but if I had to look back on tonight with regret, I’d prefer it at least come with the fond memory of his bed.
That may have been the lust talking, but damn I needed him, in me, on me, under me.
One impossible-to-ignore wrinkle might foil my get-fucked-quick scheme. I was wearing a potentially pink pantyliner, and visions of Shane encountering that drew me up short. I didn’t want our first time to be that awkward. Even if this was a one-night stand, I still didn’t want to feel embarrassed about it tomorrow.
I stared at him, memorizing the planes of his face, the curve of those lips, wanting to say yes, yes, yes. It was taking an effort to refrain from crushing my face against his. It was the tail-end of my period after all.
He twined his fingers with mine and pressed his forehead against mine, his features obscured in shadow. “What do you want to do?”
His body crashed back against me, and it was so unfair.
How could I say no?
“I could pick up a bottle of wine. Or a six pack.” His lower lip disappeared under his front teeth with a wince. “Or soda. Or nothing.”
My mind churned, looking for any rationalization that would allow me to puddle his pants at his ankles. But that image brought with it my panties on the floor, sporting spots. It wasn’t that I was a period prude, but it wasn’t exactly the first impression I wanted to make with a near total stranger.
I sighed. What I wanted to do and what I ought to do were not always the same. Not just because of my crimson cave. The truth was, I barely knew the guy. I couldn’t even tell him why.
That realization decided me.
My mom had passed on a bit of wisdom to me. She said, “Layla, if you can’t talk to a boy about sex, about your body, then you’re not ready for sex with him.”
Knowing I had to say no, I felt three stabs of disappointment. First, the immediate frustration of needing a man, any man, now that my sexuality had been awakened. Next, the appalling realization that I’d always regret not banging the drummer, like some rocker-collecting groupie. And third, the dismay that I might lose an opportunity to get to know a genuinely nice guy if I didn’t latch on when I had the chance.
But none of these would seem like compelling reasons in the cold light of morning.
So, I gave him another kiss, and reluctantly told him, “Not tonight.”
As if we’d suddenly been reverse polarized, he dropped back a step. “Sure.”
I hadn’t meant to reject him outright, but before I could think of something that might take the sting out, he turned and walked in the direction we’d come from. I fell in beside him, wondering if I’d wrecked any chance with him, which in turn made me a bit angry at how shitty it would be if he pouted or treated me like I’d wronged him because he didn’t instantly get what he wanted.
I’d had experience with guys like that. Guys who thought I owed them something because they’d bought me dinner. Guys who sent me hostile messages when I suggested I wasn’t as interested in them as they were in me.
Despite what he’d said before, I supposed Shane got whatever he wanted from girls out on the