"A&D ointment?"
"Not yet."
"Allow me." He pulls a small tube from his pocket, places it on the kitchen table, washes his hands in the sink, and turns to me.
His hands brush the hem of my t-shirt. His fingers skim the bare skin on my stomach.
Fuck, he's close to where I need him. No one has been this close in a long, long time. The soft touch is enough to set me on fire.
He moves to my left side as he rolls my t-shirt up my stomach. He only lifts enough to expose the new ink, not enough to expose my breasts.
I hold the extra fabric.
He squeezes ointment on his finger and applies with a gentle touch.
It's strange—not at all what I expect from a booty call—but it's only sexier for its oddness. He's tending to my body, my skin, the work he put on my skin.
We collaborated on this. Maybe that's why I feel so comfortable with him. Because I shared a vague idea and he turned it into something beautiful.
I want to celebrate being alive but acknowledge how hard it is too. Is a heart covered in thorns too cliché?
Maybe it is. But he made it into something unique and beautiful.
"There." He holds the t-shirt above my new tattoo. "Perfect. You want to see?"
"There's a mirror in the bedroom."
"That wasn't a come-on," he says.
"That either. It's that or the bathroom."
"Do you have a bathroom kink?"
"Not that I know about."
He smiles that sameyou're interesting and I like itsmile. "Can you hold this?" He drops the fabric.
I don't reply. I let the fabric fall and I lead him into the bedroom. My bedroom.
When was the last time I invited a man into this space? Anyone into this space? The marvel of a main room is I don't have to share my bedroom with anyone.
The last time I slept with someone… my ex, his place. It wasn't great. It was never great, but it wasn't his fault. It was the combination of my meds and my inability to let go.
Patrick is a near stranger. I don't need to worry about what he thinks of me tomorrow. I don't need to consider our future or whether or not I love him (or if I'm even capable of the kind of love he expects).
No, this is crystal clear—sex.
Only sex.
The end.
I toss my t-shirt over my head and turn to the standing mirror. "It looks perfect."
"It does." He pulls a condom from his pocket and tosses it on the bed. Then he closes the distance between us. He places his body behind mine, wraps his arm around my waist. "Anything you don't like?"
"Having to issue verbal responses." I can't form thoughts and stay in my body at the same time. Not usually.
He laughs. "Then show me."