Page 17 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Will you take off your shirt?” I whispered my question. “Is—is that okay?”

Peter smiled at me, and then his hand was pulling mine up to his mouth. His lips pressed against my knuckles before he let go, relinquishing control of my hand. My arms returned to my lap and I felt my back hunch, as though my body was trying to shield itself from further embarrassment. But my eyes stayed on Peter. I was unable to look anywhere else, no matter how nervous I was about what was likely to come.

His eyes fixed on mine as his hands reached for his shirttail. Slowly, almost painfully for me, he lifted his shirt upward, a sliver of his stomach exposed at first, then more, then his chest, then his shirt was covering his face. Finally, Peter’s face came back into view and his shirt was in his hands. Even in the little light that the moon provided, I could tell that Peter’s statement about his belly had been inaccurate. Maybe he didn’t have washboard abs, but there was nothing of which to be ashamed. It could have been my imagination, but I felt that I no longer knew how to breathe.

“Breathe,” Peter suggested though I wasn’t sure if he had read my mind or my body language. “It’s just a gorgeous body, after all.”

I laughed, which forced me to breathe.

“That is not funny,” I said, “because it’s true.”

“Jokes don’t have to make sense,” he said, “and you laughed anyway.”

Neither of us spoke for several moments.

“Have you ever touched another guy?” Peter asked. “In a sexual way?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“More than anything. Well, not just any guy. But, yes.” The beginning of my answer overlapped the ending of Peter’s question, which made him smile. “I’m nervous.”

Peter smiled at me a moment longer, then his hand was reaching for mine again. As before, he brought my hand up to his mouth and his lips pressed against my knuckles, his eyes boring into mine. Then he lowered my hand to his chest and laid it against his bare flesh. Jesus Christ. I was going to explode simply from the anticipation. Peter’s hand slid from mine and he left me to decide what happened next.

“Enzo,” Peter said, “I don’t mind if you touch me anywhere.”

“Okay.”

“Not just now,” he said. “Whenever we are together, and it’s an appropriate time and place, you don’t have to ask permission again. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll wait for you to give me permission to do the same. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And if one of us does something that the other doesn’t want or like,” Peter suggested, “we’ll tell each other. We’ll learn about each other’s bodies together. What we like. What we don’t like. What we might like. We’ll respect each other but we also won’t make each other feel weird no matter what. I won’t make fun of you no matter what happens—as long as you treat me with respect. Same for you. I’ll treat you with respect and you won’t make fun of me.”

“Okay.”

“Say ‘okay’ again,” he teased.

“Sorry.” I chuckled. “I think I am going to pass out.”

“Seriously?”

“No.” I sighed. “I am just—I am overwhelmed.”

“In a good way?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Good,” Peter replied. “I think.”

“You—you can touch me,” I said, though I hadn’t known I was going to say it until my lips started to move. “You do not have to ask permission again, either. But I need some minutes before…”

Peter glanced at my lap with a smile.