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I just don’t know how to say the words without sounding entirely inexperienced, so instead, I take Isaiah’s hand that’s cupping my jaw and guide him down, his calloused fingers grazing the skin of my throat until I leave him lingering against my sternum.
Looking up, I find his eyes locked on my face, watching me and not letting his attention dip below the sheets just yet.
“Please look at me,” I beg.
I want, no—I need to know the way it’d feel for Isaiah to look at me.
He inhales sharply, closing his eyes to gather himself and when they open, his pupils are entirely blown out as they trail down my throat and land on my chest, looking at me as if I were the greatest thing he’s ever seen.
I’ve never, not once, been looked at the way my husband looks at me. Wanted. Important. Devastating to his life plans.
His thumb dusts over the freckles of my sternum. “I love these,” he whispers, before shifting to skim the lace of my bralette. “And this... this looks so fucking good on you, Ken. What color is it? White?”
I swallow down the nerves. “Yellow.”
A grin hitches on his lips as his eyes come back up to find mine, that birthmark I’m obsessed with hidden behind a smile line. “My favorite color.”
Fuck me. Yes, I knew exactly what I was doing when I picked it out. I knew that he’d ask, and I knew I’d tell him, but now that it’s clear I wore this for him, I can feel the heat creeping up my chest.
Apparently, so does he when he spreads his hand to cover my entire décolleté.
“Don’t be embarrassed with me, Kenny. You know I’m over here losing my shit that you wore that for me.”
My hands are living at my side because I’m awkward and uncomfortable—the good uncomfortable, I guess, where you’re pushed out of your comfort zone and grow. But uncomfortable, nonetheless.
“Turn it off,” he whispers. “Turn off your brain and do what feels good. It’s all just a game, right? You and me, it’s all a game, so play along.”
This doesn’t feel like a game. The way he touches me doesn’t feel fake, neither does the way he looks at me—with longing and reverence all at once.
But telling myself Isaiah isn’t in my future helps the perfectionist in me. If I can see this as practice for someone else I may meet down the road, I can fumble, mess up, and learn without the debilitating need to be flawless the first time I attempt something.
Even if that something is as simple as fully exploring a man’s body for the first time.
“It’s hard.”
“Fucking tell me about it.” His tone is dry. “Hard as a motherfucking rock.”
I swat him in the chest. “It’s hard... to turn off my brain sometimes. I tend to overthink. Overanalyze. Over plan.”
“I know. I see you, Kenny, even if you haven’t been looking at me.”
There’s a heavy pause, a bit of tension clouding the room. Isaiah may have noticed me years ago, but I never allowed myself to really look until now.
“Come here.” The request is so quiet, I almost don’t hear it.
We meet in the center of the mattress, where I use his bicep as a pillow, my forehead to his. And for some reason that I still haven’t been able to pinpoint, calmness washes over me.
This wild boy who has endless friends, chooses to spend his time with me. He makes me feel centered. He makes me feel normal.
He makes me feel like our arrangement is normal.
With his palm still flush to my chest, I wrap my hand around his wrist, sliding it down his forearm, over his shoulder and around his back, resting it along his lower spine. My nails trail his skin the whole way.
He hums. “That feels good.”
I glide that same hand over his oblique and down to his lower abdomen, where his entire stomach contracts with a sharp breath when I trail my fingertips over the line of hair there.
“Still okay?” I ask, both of us looking down and watching.
