Page 19 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

I laughed. “Sorry. I—I—my brain. Everything is not working at the same speed right now.”

Peter smiled, though his breathing was still ragged.

“Were you giving me permission?”

“I told you to ‘do it now.’ I just meant to say it in English.”

Then my mouth was on his, which surprised him, though not in a bad way. I knew this because his hands were grabbing at the hem of my shirt desperately and pulling it upwards. I didn’t have the time or desire to worry if I looked too skinny or if I didn’t have enough hair on my chest or stomach. When Peter pulled my shirt off over my head, all I could think about was how I didn’t want to pull my mouth away from his long enough to allow it. All I wanted was my mouth on his and our hands on each other’s bodies. However, once my shirt was removed, Peter placed a hand against my chest—a glorious feeling, his flesh against mine—at the base of my throat, and pushed me back ever so gently.

“What?” I gasped, my lips missing his immediately.

Peter didn’t answer, but instead, let his eyes travel over my chest, which was bathed in the soft moonlight. In the dark, it was hard to tell if what Peter saw pleased him, or if instead, it made him question his activities with me.

Am I too skinny?

Do I look boyish?

Are my rib bones showing too much?

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Enzo.”

“That is a lie,” I said. “But I do not mind it.”

Peter laughed, his fingers trailing to the side to trace my collar bone, sending shivers up my spine.

“You’re gorgeous to me,” he said. “Will that work for you?”

“That works for me.” I agreed.

Then I remembered where my hand was on his body; my grip loosened.

“Don’t.” Peter shivered. “This is okay. For me. Is it okay for you?”

“Yes.” I nodded anxiously, my fingers wrapping more firmly around him through his pajamas. “Am I doing everything well so far?”

Peter smiled. “I think your hand has the answer, Enzo.”

My cheeks felt hot, but I was more pleased than embarrassed.

“Am I—am I a good kisser?”

“The only way I can answer that…I will kiss you until you can’t remember how many times you’ve been kissed,” Peter said. “Your lips should never be without mine on them.”

Peter lowered his hand, wrapping it around mine. As he stared into my eyes, he began to move my hand, showing me how to stroke him. His eyes stayed on mine as he moaned softly.

“Is this okay?”

I nodded again, unable to form words.

“Do you want to do more?”

I shook my head, though I wasn’t saying “no.”

“Stop asking permission,” I said. “We said that we do not have to ask permission. We will tell each other if something is not okay.”

“Then I’m going to do something I will just have to beg forgiveness for later.”

And then his hand was on me. Not my face. Not my neck. Not my chest. Or even my stomach. He was gripping me the same way that I was gripping him. He was wise to not move his fingers once I was in his hand; I shivered as a groan burst from my mouth.