And Nora—perfect, particular Nora—she gave him exactly what he craved.
As soon as he crossed the threshold she set her hands back on his chest, guiding him to the foot of her bed before pressing his shoulders down.
“Stay there,” she said, smiling as she stepped out of reach of his grasping hands, all at once pulling her shirt and already-unhooked bra over her head. She stood, backlit by the light that spilled into the hallway from the bathroom, and he thought he’d never seen something as beautiful as that—every curve and angle of Nora’s body shown to him, mostly in silhouette, with small, intimate details coming clearer as his eyes adjusted. When she hooked her thumbs at the sides of her underwear and pushed them down, he thought he might’ve stopped breathing, seeing the movement of her body while she bared herself to him. All those blurry images from before got sharper, more distinct: his tongue licking across the rosy tip of her nipple, his teeth set against the slope of her shoulder, his thumbs smoothing their way up the inside of her thighs.
“Not yet,” she said, another whispered command, and only then did he realize he’d been reaching for her. He pulled his hands back, setting his palms flat on the bed and trying not to clutch too obviously at her comforter. But then she reached up and took down her hair, and he stopped trying; he took two whole fistfuls of her bedding as he watched it fall over her shoulders, her breasts, the full, straight length of it hitting right at the top of her rib cage.
“Nora,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”
She stepped between the V of his thighs and reached up, gently pulling his glasses from his face, and when she moved to set them down on the dresser behind her, he made a demand of his own, catching at her hips roughly and stilling her. “Stay close,” he said, low and serious, because it felt so serious.
He did not want to lose sight of her. Not even for a second.
She made quick work of coming back to him, setting her hands against the stubbled skin along his jaw before bending to kiss him, and the next thing he knew they were both on the bed, Nora’s warm, soft skin running the length of him. It took all his concentration to let her explore first: her mouth on his neck, down the center of his chest, across his abdomen as she worked the button and zipper on his jeans. He could tell something about the way she moved over him, the way she straddled him, the way she touched and tasted him—it was an assertion, a claiming, the demands she was making as much about herself as they were about him.
I can give her that, he thought, clenching his jaw tightly as she took down his jeans and boxer briefs and socks all at once, as she climbed back over him, the damp heat between her legs pressed against one of his thighs. He breathed out his frantic impatience, his desperation to tug at her again, to set her where he wanted her. He breathed in his focus, and for the first time in his life it felt truly easy, truly natural to sharpen his attention.
It was easy because it was all for her.
To give her this, whatever she wanted. Whatever kept making this feel like a first for her.
She lifted his hands from where they rested in readiness on her waist, moving them up, giving him permission, and when he cupped her breasts in his palms she moaned, dropping her head back, and oh, fuck, when she did that, the ends of her hair grazed against his thigh, his knee, his shin—all places, apparently, that had a direct line to his balls. He levered himself up, his hands on her not enough, and set his mouth to work—soft kisses first, a teasing stroke of his tongue along the edge of her nipple, and when she rocked her hips and clutched at the back of his head he gave her more, sucking at one breast while groping the other roughly, moving his free hand to that fall of hair, giving her the tight, tense hold he already knew she liked.
He did it for so long that the movements of her hips got more rhythmic, more insistent, her breathing quick. A revelation, a first: somehow satisfying Nora with what amounted to a dry hump against his leg was already the best sex he’d ever had. But if you could only—
Once the thought intruded, it was so vivid he had to pull his mouth from her breast, to rest his damp forehead against the flushed skin of her chest. He was speaking before he could stop it, before he could regain his focus. “Nora,” he whispered, a plea. “Let me taste it.”
She made a small noise, part gasp, part grunt, and his thigh got wetter. If she came from this, he certainly wouldn’t blame her, and he definitely wouldn’t be far behind. She hadn’t even touched his cock yet and he was close. Edge-of-a-cliff close. He breathed in, smelling her sex, his mouth fairly watering for it.
“Not yet,” she said again, and then she moved off of him, crawling toward her nightstand and pulling out a still-sealed box of condoms.
“I want this first,” she said, so bold and gorgeous, and thank God she let him take the box from her; thank God she let him rip it open and grit his teeth and put one on himself, because he wouldn’t have survived her touch, not right that second. But what she did do was almost as arousing, her body easing onto its side, her elbow propping her up, her eyes on his hand, on the hardness between his legs. She watched him roll the condom on like she’d never paid attention to a man doing this particular task before.
When he was done he moved to lie beside her, waiting for her to tell him, to show him, what she wanted. Given what they’d been doing he half expected her to push him over, to straddle him so that they could pick up where they’d left off, but instead she gripped his shoulders and rolled onto her back, and he didn’t know how it could be so perfectly done, how this first time they could line up like this—her legs spread beneath him, her sex rubbing so exactly right against his.
Focus, he told himself, bending to kiss her, to whisper against her mouth and ask if she was sure. She gave it to him three ways: her nod, her yes, her hand on his ass, guiding him toward her. But the second he pushed inside her—the barest inch—he had to drop his head to the mattress with a groan and reach back for her gripping hand. He would not last with her touch like that, urging him on, and he had to make this last, to make it so good for her. So he made another silent demand, catching up that hand first and then her other, intertwining their fingers and raising their pressed-together palms above her head.
“Yes,” she said, before he could ask if it was okay. “Yes, like that.”
So, like that. Like that he pushed all the way inside her, her clutching heat breath-stealing. Like that he gave his first, slow thrust, and he closed his eyes, wondering if he’d actually seen stars. Like that he knew he’d never felt anything close to this—Nora beneath him, breathing out her pleasure and rolling her hips to intensify it, her grasp around his fingers tightening as they found the perfect pace together, as he went deeper.
Like that he knew he would never be the same.
But he couldn’t think of that now, not with Nora getting closer and closer. At some point, they’d lost their shared patience for keeping their hands out of it; when his focus came back, she had one on his back and one on his ass; he had one pressed flat on the bed and the other on the back of her thigh, holding her open for the thrusts that had gotten harder, more insistent. He bit the inside of his cheek, not making the demand he wanted, not telling her to come, but as it turned out he didn’t need to, because Nora’s hips sped up beneath him, her nails scratching perfectly against his back as she bit down on her lip to quiet her moaning cry.
Don’t come, he commanded himself, wanting to see her all the way through it, wanting to feel fully every clutching pulse along his length. But it had been so long; he had waited so long to feel this with her, since the very—
“Will,” she said, lifting her head to lick up the side of his neck, dewy with the sweat of his exertion, and that did it; that was all it took. He groaned and stilled above her, grateful for her arms around him, grateful for the way she held him tight as he came apart. It was better, more intense, more complete than seeing stars; it was like becoming them, cut-up pieces of him scattered to the night. He said her name, once and then again, because nothing else wo
uld come to him, no other thought or feeling available. No pressure, no practicality, no responsibility. Nothing but Nora.
A perfect, unforgettable first.
Well, he didn’t see hell.
But he sure slept like the dead.
When he first woke, Nora was against him, not far from the spot she’d been in when she’d fallen asleep. Then, she’d tucked herself against his side, her head growing heavier against his shoulder and chest as she’d drifted off, the small muscles in her hands and feet occasionally twitching out whatever tension they’d held over the course of the day. Now, she’d shifted enough so that her head rested on his stomach, the smooth, straight strands of her hair draped across his bare chest, and without thinking he lifted a hand to them, stroking sleepily, barely conscious.
It wasn’t so unusual for Will to sleep hard, not after years of chaotic hospital schedules, long stretches of time where he wasn’t simply awake but also urgently awake, dealing-with-something-serious awake. A blank, consuming sleep after that wasn’t so much a pleasure as it was a necessity, his body simply giving out on him and going pitch dark with fatigue. But this waking up . . . this was different. Hesitant, when it almost always felt like he sat straight up; fuzzy, when he nearly always had the day’s schedule clear in his head. His eyes stayed closed and his mind stayed slow, not working through much of anything other than the soft tangles he found in Nora’s hair.
In fact it might have been that he . . . drifted off again? That seemed almost unreal, impossible, but the next thing he was aware of was Nora stirring against him, her soft cheek moving across his abdomen, her lips pressing into his skin before she half settled again, making a sleepy, frustrated noise.
“What time?” she mumbled, and he kept his eyes closed, still dozing, his lips curving.
“Dunno,” he said, or maybe just thought.
After a second her arm reached across him, her head coming up and her hair tickling across his skin. Well, one part of him was awake, at least. Nora slapped at the nightstand where she’d plugged in her phone last night, part of a routine—their one-after-the-other trips to the bathroom, their teasing arguments about which side of the bed he’d sleep on—that had felt, despite the first-time circumstances of it all, strangely normal.
When she lit up the screen he threw an arm over his eyes but then changed his mind when he realized he was missing an opportunity. He squinted one eye open, then the second, Nora’s profile lit in white-blue light, her face scrunched and sleepy and still goddamned sexy. He moved his hand, traced a finger along her spine.
“Four fifty-seven,” she said, setting the phone back down with a clatter before dropping her forehead to his skin. “Late.”
“No,” he protested lazily, stroking outward from her spine, running his fingertips up her side, over the curve formed by the side of her breast. “Early. Not even morning, really.”
She made a funny, disbelieving half snort but then shuddered when he stroked her again. Pretty much it was only his hands and his dick that were fully online, but he could work with that. She could work with that, if she’d only—
“Let me—” She broke off when he got his finger close to her nipple, then sighed, dropping her head to kiss his stomach again. “Let me run to the bathroom first.”
He laughed softly in satisfaction, knowing he had her, and when she slapped playfully at his chest as she climbed out of bed he caught her hand, pressing a kiss in the center of her palm. When she started to walk away he did a small, simple thing, a thing the sleepy part of his brain told him was most natural: he held on to her loosely, a move that was less about keeping her than it was about touching her right up until the last possible second, and she laughed, squeezing his fingers back before letting them trail lightly away from his.
But when she let go, he realized why it seemed so natural.
Where he’d seen it before.
That was what his dad used to do.
Every time his mom left the dinner table, or her spot beside him on the couch. Every time they were out, and she’d walk away from him, only ever for a minute or two. Even when he was sick, his most sick—in bed, in the hospital—he did it. Any time she left his side.
Oh, he was awake now.
He pushed himself up when Nora left the room, then blinked at the brightness cast his way when she flicked on the bathroom light. But as he heard the door creak shut, he was slowly sent into darkness again, a catch in his breath as he tried to shake off that brief, ill-timed trip to his own personal underworld. Waking up this way, that had been a mistake.
With Nora, he had to be more careful.
He swallowed, rubbing a hand across his chest and then reaching for his own phone beside Nora’s. 4:59, not that he needed to check again, but this time, with his brain back in the game, he could remember the practicalities. Last night, what they’d agreed to was sex; what they’d agreed on was that they were good together—for this, and in secret. But this morning, he had to remember: it would cause trouble for Nora, him being here too late. It would cause trouble for him, too—for the apartment down below, for the business he was basically running out of a place everyone else here called home.
For his heart.
Right, yeah—should he get up? No, that would be a coward’s way out, getting up and getting himself dressed when he’d all but told her to come back to him. The least he could do was wait, and anyway, he ought to let this erection settle down before he even attempted pants. He rubbed his palms down his thighs, attempting some semblance of focus: later today he had a shift at the clinic; tomorrow he should probably deal with bills. The tenant that was coming on Tuesday, did he owe her an email? He ought to—
He heard the bathroom door opening, light sneaking into the room again, and he suddenly felt more sheepish than he might’ve if she’d found him already dressed. It was probably weirder to be sitting up like this, halfway to going, but not really committing to it.
“So,” she said, a smile in her voice as she came into the room. “Now you think it’s morning.”
She came to stand in front of him, and when he raised his head, she surprised him, gently settling his glasses on his face. He swallowed, looking her over—a long, silky robe tied loosely at her waist, sheer where the soft light hit it. Nothing about him was settling down now.
“No,” he lied, reaching out to catch at the delicate tie at her waist. Safe to hold on to that, at least.
“I’m sorry to say, I really think you’ll have to go now,” she teased, and he groaned, dropping his head to rest against her stomach. “What if Marian has her checkpoint set up?”
He laughed miserably. He should go. He knew he should; he’d decided. But for long seconds, he rested like that in silence, utterly stymied. He couldn’t stay this morning; he knew all the reasons he had to be careful. But he didn’t want last night’s first to be the last, not yet.
And he didn’t think Nora did, either.
He looked up, a delicious practicality hitting him. A reason to come back.
“Nora,” he said, and she hmmed? in response, her hand stroking softly, absently, through his hair. “When you were in your bathroom just now . . . did you happen to notice anything about your faucet?”
Her hand stilled in his hair, and then she took a step back. Damn, he thought, his stomach sinking.
But when he looked up at her, he was grateful she’d brought his glasses, grateful he could see the fullness of her expression: her hands on her hips, a look on her face that was deliberately, comically determined.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, giving him that big, break-of-day smile. “I did.”
Chapter 13
“So what you’re saying is,” Deepa said, her chin resting in one hand, a lipstick-printed glass of wine held loosely in the other, “you’re trading your sexual favors for bathroom fixtures.”
Nora laughed and blushed, taking a sip from her own glass and blinking away from the screen of her laptop, which she’d set up on a stack of cook
books on her kitchen counter. It was the first time in almost two weeks she and Dee had been able to talk outside of work, and while Nora hadn’t necessarily planned to get into what had been going on with Will these last couple weeks, she also knew that Dee could read her so well, even through a computer screen. This conversation had been a long time coming, and before Nora had even finished her practiced, prudent explanation of her arrangement with Will, Dee had shouted, “I knew it!” in laughing victory.
“You’re making it sound awful,” Nora finally said, setting down her wine and moving toward the stove, stirring gently at the sauce she had heating.
And it is the opposite of awful, she silently added, staring down at the pot and blinking away images that rose up before her with the steam: Will above and beneath her in her bed; Will on his knees in her shower; Will—her cheeks flamed at the thought of this one—behind her while her hands clutched at the counter of the bathroom sink. Everything so brand-new.
Four times, he’d come over: always late at night, always leaving before dawn, never once since that first time getting so close to breaking the boundary she was still keeping for this. So far, in addition to the towel and shower curtain rods, they’d put in new faucets for her sink and tub, and replaced the old, speckled-at-the-edges mirror that Nora was pretty sure was original to this place. Look how clearly you can see yourself in this new one, Will had said that night from behind her, moving her hair to the side. Look, he’d repeated, again and again, as he’d touched her.
Stubborn image, that one.
“I think tonight we’re putting in a new light,” she said, all anticipation. By now she was used to being up late like this, waiting for him. She stirred once more, composing herself before turning back to the screen.
Love at First Page 19