All I Ask of You

by Iris Morland

  She tasted like flowers and honey and he couldn’t get enough. He licked at her and when he let her nipple go, he could see that it was now a dark pink, almost red, and it was his turn to groan. He was harder than he’d ever been in his life, and she hadn’t even touched him.

  He played with her other breast. But it wasn’t enough. He remembered how she’d felt underneath his fingers, and he pulled her pajama bottoms down her legs. She wore white cotton panties that only made him harder.

  Grace tipped her head back on the pillows as he traced her mound through her panties. He could feel she was already wet. It would only take a second and he could be inside her. He shuddered at the thought.

  But he forced himself to slow down. She deserved that. He started trailing kisses up her pale legs, finding tiny moles and freckles, and even a scar on her knee that he couldn’t help but love. When he spread her legs, he found more freckles.

  “How do you have freckles even here?” He traced them, the explosion of tiny dots.

  He could feel her shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  He laughed, drawing patterns on her thigh.

  As he moved upward, he kissed her hip, finding a pale white scar about the size of a dime. “What happened here?” he asked.

  She looked down. “Oh, that? Fell off my bike when I was six onto some gravel. I was alone and I walked all the way home, crying.”

  “Poor Graciela,” he said, kissing the scar.

  “Don’t worry: I got back up on my bike the next day.”

  He shook his head. Of course she did. Brave, headstrong Graciela.

  His fingers began stroking near her sex, and he played with her. He could smell her arousal, and it was heady. He muttered words, words in Spanish and in English, and they seemed to make her tilt her hips toward him.

  But as he began to pull her panties down her legs, he could feel her still. Looking up at her face, her eyes were still wide, but they seemed almost panicked.

  He lifted himself upward, lying on his side next to her. He touched her face, curling a strand of hair around his finger.

  “Jaime…” she said. “I have to tell you…”

  He waited. He had no idea what she felt compelled to tell him right then, but if she thought it was important, he’d wait. Even if his cock was hard as a rock and Grace was lying here, naked and delicious and so close to becoming his.

  He thought of cold showers and tax season and deboning trout and anything else he hated to calm his desperate body.

  Grace took a deep breath. She wasn’t looking at him, but instead seemed intent on addressing his collarbone. “Before we do this, you should know something.”

  He stilled. Had she been hurt before? Had sex been unpleasant for her? He gritted his teeth, wondering if he could punch that guy in the mouth.

  She tipped her chin into her chest. A blush flooded her face as she blurted, “I’m a virgin.”

  He stared at the top of her head. His heart galloped. And then he rolled away from her, sitting up, and groaned, knowing that he was definitely going to hell now.

  Chapter Eleven

  Grace watched as Jaime rolled off of her, like she’d just told him she had the plague. That little bit of information—I’m a virgin—had fallen out of her mouth, and now it sat in the middle of the room, like the greatest elephant, neither of them wanting to touch it. She grabbed her shirt and pants, pulling them on, not wanting to lie there half-naked.

  She sat back down on the couch, covering her face with her hands. She’d been debating since forever about whether or not to tell him, mostly because she wanted him to know she had no idea what she was doing and didn’t want him to think she was some incompetent loser. But now he thought she was, in fact, an incompetent loser who no guy had wanted to sleep with. She stifled a groan. Was it her fate to screw everything up? Now Jaime would look at her like this freak—twenty-three years old and a virgin.

  The word felt heavy on her tongue. Virgin virgin virgin. She hated it. She hated that she cared. She hated that he cared. Uncovering her eyes, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or kick him in the kneecap.

  Jaime was gazing at her, watching her, looking at her like he didn’t know what to do with her. She really groaned out loud this time.

  “You know what, this was a bad idea,” she said. “I’m going home and going to dig a grave to throw myself into.” She didn’t even know what she was saying. She just had to get away from him, away from the way he was looking at her.

  She knew, objectively, that twenty-three wasn’t that old, and not that old to be a virgin. But that didn’t stop the intense feeling of humiliation, stripped raw, showing Jaime her soft underbelly and then having him refuse to touch her, like some kind of leper. It was rather like being wrapped up in some weird, scaly skin and she wished she could rip it off, even if it left her bloody and sore.

  Then again, she guessed she kind of did have a skin covering her, and she almost burst into hysterical laughter. I’m laughing about my hymen. I need a drink. She was to the front door when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey, no, don’t leave. Not yet.” Jaime snaked an arm around her waist, letting her lean against him. “Are you upset?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. Now he felt sorry for her. She wanted to die. Pulling away from him, she crossed her arms over her chest, like she could protect herself that way.

  “I’m not upset,” she said, in a voice that quivered.

  He laughed, although it was more like a huff. She looked up, a flush climbing up her face.

  “It’s not funny.” She stepped toward him, her fists clenching. “I’m also not the one acting like I told you I have herpes or something!”

  He narrowed his dark eyes. “Is that how I’m acting?”

  She could’ve gladly shoved him out the window. “You know what, I don’t have time for this. You think I’m some kind of freak for being a virgin, like it even matters, like it isn’t some social construct created to control women and their sexuality, like it makes a damn bit of difference about who I am as a person—”

  Jaime stepped toward her, pressing a finger to her lips. He then drew her close, and although she was angry, she let him.

  “I never said you were a freak,” he said quietly, “and although I agree with everything you just said, by the way, can I explain why I may have reacted the way I did?”

  She uncrossed her arms, beginning to pluck at his t-shirt collar. It had started to fray. “I guess,” she mumbled.

  “You’re not a freak. I don’t give two shits who you have or haven’t slept with, by the way. But realizing that I’d be your first? It’s a big responsibility.” He took a deep breath. “I’d hate to fuck it up, Graciela.”

  She didn’t want to, but she melted a bit at his words. She laid her cheek against his shoulder, feeling his heart pound. “You wouldn’t screw it up,” she said, knowing it was true.

  “Your confidence in me is flattering.”

  “No, I know you wouldn’t. Because you’d care enough to make sure it was good. Or at least, not terrible.”

  He laughed softly. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted.”

  “I only told you because I wanted to explain…” She stepped away from him, mostly because she couldn't think with him so close. “That you’d know why I’m not very good at this.” She began fiddling with her hair, beyond self-conscious. “I’m not very good with things I don’t know much about, you know?”

  Grace wondered how anyone did this, especially with someone they didn’t know. Not for moral implications, but mostly because it was such a baring of one’s self. Literally, figuratively. Emotionally. She twisted her hair around her finger and let it go, pulling and twisting and making a mess of it.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said finally, looking up at him. “It just ruined everything. Now you’re going to avoid me, aren’t you?” When Jaime didn’t respond, she had her answer. She sighed. “Don’t put me up
on some pedestal, Jaime. Don’t. I’m a virgin, not some saint. You won’t go to hell if you change that status.”

  She watched as a grin tugged at his mouth. Then he laughed. “Have I said how much I love your honesty?” He took her hand and led her back to the couch. “You’re right, though. As always.”

  She rubbed her hands against her pajama pants. They were old and worn, the flannel almost scratchy now. “So, what do we do now?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What do you want to do?”

  “Well, I definitely don’t want to go home, that’s for sure.”

  He snaked an arm around her waist and placed her on his lap. Now face-to-face, he said in a quiet voice, “How about this? You do what you’d like. You'll be in control of the entire thing.”

  A thrill raced through her, but fear also expanded within her. How could she be in control when she didn’t know what she was doing?

  “I’m not sure…” She touched that frayed collar again. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she mumbled.

  “You don’t have to do anything,” he reassured her. He touched her hair, her cheek.

  But she wanted to do something. Her heart pounding, she gathered her courage and pressed her mouth to his. He didn’t control the kiss—not like he had before—and realizing he’d meant what he’d said, her courage rose. She kissed him and he returned the kiss, hands encircling her waist. It was a slow, leisurely kiss, and she explored his mouth while he did in kind. He wasn’t passive by any means, but he let her do what she wanted and followed.

  She broke the kiss, wanting to take him in. His dark hair, his dark eyes, the stubble on his face. She touched his cheeks, feeling the roughness underneath her fingertips. She traced the indentation in his chin, the dip in his upper lip. She felt the soft hairs of his eyebrows, and how his right one arched slightly more than the left.

  “You’re beautiful,” she breathed, meaning it completely. Her fingers traced down his throat, feeling his Adam’s apple bob.

  He smiled, brushing her hair from her face. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

  She shook her head. “This is about you, not me.”

  He let her touch, let her play. She kissed him on the soft skin behind his ear. She asked him about a scar on his jaw—shaving when he was eight and being an idiot, he replied—and asked him about a bump on his left ear. “I tried to pierce my ear in seventh grade,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But it got infected two days later, and my mom said I deserved it for being so stupid.”

  Grace laughed. “I can’t imagine you with an earring. You’d look like a pirate.”

  “Better than a boy band reject.”

  She kissed him over his heart, and for some reason, hearing him groan in his throat emboldened her. Conversation vanished. She kissed him as she touched him underneath his t-shirt. She traced the lines of his abdominals, the scattering of hair around his belly button, and then she pulled his shirt over his head. Heat spread through her as she gazed at him. A light amount of chest hair covered his pectorals, and she brushed a finger across a dark brown nipple. She’d never been this close to a man, touched one like this. It was a heady feeling. She watched as he took in deep breaths, his chest rising and falling. She smiled when she noticed a small mole close to his belly button.

  His hands gripped her waist a little bit harder, like he was restraining himself. But Grace forgot all about that when she looked down and saw how hard he was, and for her. She felt dizzy realizing it. Curious but unsure, she looked at him, as if she could telepathically ask if she could touch him.

  His eyes were so dark they seemed completely black.

  “Can I?” she whispered.

  His smile was dark and seductive. “Whatever you want, Graciela. I’m yours to command.”

  For some reason, looking was more intense than touching. She kissed him as her fingers roved below the waistband of his running pants. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her ears. The kissing and touching became almost too much, and she pulled away, concentrating on below. Pulling his waistband down, she couldn’t catch her breath. This was Jaime, almost bared to her. Jaime, who’d she’d dreamt about for so many years.

  His scent, his warmth, the sounds of his breathing, the way his hands roamed up under her shirt when he’d said he’d let her lead, all of it combined to make her braver than she’d thought possible. She stroked him through his boxers; he groaned and cursed underneath his breath.

  She loved that. She never thought she could drive a man wild—let alone this man—and she felt drunk on that power. She slowly uncovered him, revealing his hard cock, and her heart stuttered. She had no basis for comparison, but he seemed large. She lightly touched the tip, then stroked a finger up and down, tracing a vein underneath the soft skin.

  “Graciela,” he groaned, “you’re going to kill me.”

  She took him in her hand, squeezing gently. He cursed again. She kept doing that—squeezing, then pulling, feeling him get even harder. Fluid leaked from the tip, and when she touched her tongue to it, she felt him jerk.

  His hand covered hers, and he squeezed it harder. “Like this,” he said into her hair. “You can’t hurt me.”

  She wasn’t so sure, but with his hand around her own, she began moving her hand up and down, harder than before. He tilted his hips toward her. She breathed his name, and it was like that broke his control. He captured her mouth and kissed her hard, his tongue delving into her mouth as she stroked him, over and over again. She felt him tremble. He held her still as he kissed her like a wild man, and then on the last stroke of her hand and his hand upward, he cursed against her mouth. He shuddered, and she felt him coming, wetness coating her fingers.

  Grace didn’t stop kissing him. She tasted his pleasure, reveling in the fact that she’d done this to him. She’d gotten Jaime to lose control. She smiled against his lips, finally taking her hand from his cock, but she didn't stop touching him, either.

  “Graciela, Graciela, you drive me insane,” he muttered against her neck. He licked her throat, nipped at her collarbone. She didn’t want him to stop touching her. She never wanted to leave his house, his lap, she never wanted to be without him.

  But his kisses began to ease, and he eventually stopped, gazing at her.

  “It’s late,” he said.

  She picked up her phone from the coffee table and saw that it was close to three o’clock in the morning. She needed to get home before her parents realized she was gone. She was an adult, but being under their roof blurred the lines, too.

  Standing up, she went to the bathroom to rinse off her hands before putting on her coat and boots. Looking out, she saw there was a decent amount of snow on her car, even though it had stopped snowing when she’d arrived.

  “I’ll drive you home,” Jaime said.

  She smiled, shaking her head. “And leave my car here? I’ll be okay.”

  “Let me at least help you get the snow off.”

  After brushing off the powdery snow, Jaime stood outside her car door, as if he didn’t want to say goodbye. Grace didn’t know what to say. Did she say thank you? I’ll see you soon? But then he leaned down, kissed her, and told her good night and to text him when she got home. She nodded.

  She drove slowly, mostly because her mind wouldn’t stop going over every detail of that night, but also because the roads were rather slick with snow. She finally got home twenty minutes later, making sure to turn off her headlights before parking her car so she wouldn’t alert her parents. It was silly—she had a right to go where she wanted—but she didn’t want a lecture, either.

  After quietly entering, not turning on a light, she almost jumped out of her skin when she heard a voice in the living room say, “Grace?”

  She edged into the room, seeing her father sitting on the couch. He looked like he’d been waiting for her. She unwound her scarf from her neck. “What are you doing up?” she asked, feeling stupid for feeling like she was caught red-handed.

  “I’
d like to ask the same of you,” he said, shutting the book he’d been reading. “Where were you tonight?”

  As she placed her coat in the hall closet and took off her boots, she found herself bristling at his question. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business. I’m going to bed,” she replied, turning to go upstairs.

  “It is my business when your mother and I are paying your bills and providing you with a roof over your head.” He didn’t get up, but his voice stopped her from going to her bedroom. “You have no leg to stand on, young lady.”

  Grace gritted her teeth. She entered the living room, her arms crossed. “I’m not some teenager. I’m an adult. I can go where I please.”

  “Yes, you can. You can do whatever you want. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to say anything about it. When are you going to get your act together? Sneaking out at all hours of the night while working at a dead-end job at a diner? Is this the kind of life you want?”

  She hugged herself, feeling exhaustion swamp her limbs. Did her father have to constantly remind her how much of a failure she was? “I’m sorry I kept you up,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “You didn’t answer my question: what are you doing with your life, Grace?”

  She dug her fingers into her back. The ultimate question, and one she couldn't answer. All of the pleasure, the joy of the past few hours evaporated. Biting the inside of her cheek, she replied, “Good night, Dad.”

  She hurried upstairs, closing her door and locking it, like she could keep out her father’s questions. Everything collided until she felt tears falling down her cheeks: Jaime’s kisses, his touch, how much she’d wanted him. How she felt lost and useless and confused about her life in general. How she wanted to paint but couldn’t even manage that anymore.

  She wiped at the tears, collapsing onto her bed. She inhaled her shirt, smelling Jaime on it. It calmed her. The knot in her belly unraveled a little.

  Even if she couldn’t get her life in order, she thought, she could help Jaime get his back. She could find evidence that he was innocent. She could help him—she knew she could. She imagined his face when she told him this, and it allowed her to fall asleep, her heart not as heavy as it would’ve been otherwise.