The Heart Principle

by Helen Hoang

  “Let’s do this—you and me, together—and see what happens,” I say.

  “Okay.” That’s all she says, but that’s more than enough.

  Now that we’re not talking, the roar of the fountain in the lagoon fills my ears. I’m aware of Anna, the building around us, the rippling light above us, and the night beyond.

  Everything, every single thing, is absolutely perfect.

  EIGHTEEN

  Anna

  We grab falafel and pita sandwiches from a food truck and eat them as we walk by the marina, where the sail-less masts of the boats point toward the sky like upside-down lollipops. We talk about octopi and joke about the possible places where we might find one hiding along the shore. Like usual for us, we end up kissing, but when Quan touches me, his hands feel like ice on my skin. I don’t want him to die of hypothermia, so I insist we call it a night.

  Outside my apartment building, I debate things for a second before asking, “Do you want to come up?”

  “Do you want me to?” he asks instead.

  “I asked first.”

  He laughs as he fiddles with my helmet. It seems to take him a long time to lock it to the back of his bike before he says, “Yeah, I want to.”

  “Then come up with me,” I say.

  After attaching his own helmet to his bike, he follows me into the building and up three sets of musty old stairs to my apartment. Inside, I step out of my shoes, remove his jacket, and drape it over the back of my armchair, suddenly ill at ease. I know what comes next, but I don’t know how to get us there.

  “A-are you thirsty?” I ask.

  “No, thanks,” he says.

  “Do you want to watch TV?”

  His lips quirk in amusement. “It would be different to finally watch something with you in person, but no, I don’t feel like TV right now.”

  He advances toward me, and my breath catches. The way he walks, like he’s going somewhere important, appeals to me. Because he’s coming to me.

  “I figured out how we need to do this the first time,” he says.

  “How?”

  He leans down and presses his lips to my temple, my cheek, the soft spot behind my ear. “In the dark.”

  I immediately think of his self-consciousness with regard to his surgery and nod. “I’m okay with that.”

  We head down the hall to my bedroom, and in the doorway, I automatically fumble around for the light switch until Quan whispers, “Let’s keep the lights off. Unless you changed your mind?”

  “No, I just forgot.” I wander through the darkness, eventually bumping my knees against the cushioned side of my mattress.

  I turn around to find him, and smack straight into his chest with an ooof.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  “Yes, but this is a little awkward.”

  “A little,” he agrees. “But I kind of like it, too. I get to learn a whole new side of you.”

  “The clumsy side of me?”

  “I’m so used to seeing you. Now I get to focus on feeling you.” His lips land on my forehead, on an eyebrow, eliciting a laugh from me, on the tip of my nose, my mouth. He sucks on my bottom lip, licks, and then claims my mouth with bold strokes of his tongue as his hands sweep over my body.

  When he palms my behind and squeezes, my inner muscles clench tight, and moisture floods between my thighs. Logically, I know he won’t ease the ache in my body—there’s no way he could know how—but I want him anyway. I want his kisses, his caresses. I want him close. Most of all, I want him to want me.

  My kisses acquire a wild edge. I slip my hands under his shirt and test the firmness of his stomach, his chest, his back. Even without the light, I can sense how strong he is, how fast. I am neither of those things, and I delight in our differences. When I register the hardness pressing against my lower belly, I rise instinctively onto the tips of my toes until we line up . . . just right.

  He makes a hoarse sound and rocks against me, slowly. Sensation arrows straight to my core, and my knees buckle. He doesn’t let me fall. He holds me up, pulls one of my thighs over his hip, and rubs sinuously between my legs as he kisses me deeper. The rawness of the action, the friction, his mouth, it all overwhelms me.

  I hardly notice when he settles me on the bed. I just know that our bodies are closer now. Closer is better. I push his shirt up, impatient with the layers of fabric between us, and he breaks the kiss to yank it off. Our mouths come back together like we can’t stand to be separated. I suppose that’s true, for now. I’m addicted to his kisses. And his taste, his scent, his skin. I slide my hands down his back, trailing my fingertips along his spine, luxuriating in the feel of him. When I encounter the waistband of his pants, I slip my fingers underneath and venture down, so I can fill my hands with the perfectly rounded globes of his ass. Instantly, I’m obsessed.

  “You’re in trouble,” I say between kisses.

  “Why?”

  “Now that I know what you feel like, I won’t be able to stop touching you here. I’m going to do it all the time.” I’m being completely honest, so I don’t understand at first when he breaks out laughing, but I decide it is a little funny.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says, and even though I can’t see him, I can tell he’s smiling from the timbre of his voice. “Touch me as much as you like.”

  “Anywhere?” I ask, because I remember what happened last time.

  He pauses for a moment, and then the bed shifts as he moves. I hear the zip as he undoes his pants and the thud when they hit the floor. It doesn’t make sense, but I feel intensely self-conscious as I pull my dress over my head, toss it aside, and remove my underclothes.

  I shouldn’t feel this way. He can’t see me. I can’t even see me. But it’s like my mind still hasn’t accepted that the darkness is real. I’m waiting for someone to judge me, my body, my actions.

  He stretches out next to me and pulls me toward him so our bodies are flush together, front to front, skin to skin. The rigid length of his sex burns against my pelvis, but I ignore it.

  “You feel so good,” he whispers, running his hand up my leg and over my hip.

  “So do you.” I touch his face, his neck, and rest my palm against the center of his chest. “I can feel your heart beating. It’s fast. Are you nervous?”

  “A little,” he admits.

  “Me, too.”

  “Do you want to stop?” he asks.

  “No.”

  Brushing his lips softly against mine, he whispers, “Should I stop talking and get back to kissing you then?”

  “Yes, pl—”

  His tongue strokes between my lips, and he kisses me with so much feeling that my toes curl. For ages, that’s all we do. We kiss until we can barely breathe. We touch each other, but our hands remain in safe places—arms, legs, stomachs, backs. Yes, I grab his butt because I’m an indecent woman, but I don’t have the nerve to do more than that after last time.

  When I shift restlessly, his length slides between my thighs and rubs over my sex, and he groans against my neck as his body stiffens.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Breathing roughly, he nuzzles my neck and sucks on my earlobe before saying, “If I show you how I like to be touched, will you do the same?”

  “Can’t I just touch you?”

  He makes a frustrated growling sound and presses a hard kiss to my mouth. “I want us both to enjoy this.”

  “I am.” Sex with Julian was work—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Because I was always trying to be something other than what I was. This is . . . something else.

  “You know what I mean,” Quan says. “Talk to me, or show me, anything.”

  “I can’t. I want to. For you. But I can’t. It’s embarrassing, and if anyone—”

  “Anyone what? It’s just the two of us here, Anna.�
�

  “I know, but . . .” I don’t finish. I don’t know how to explain.

  “You want me. Unless I’m imagining things.”

  “I do.” I turn my burning face away from him, but then I remember he can’t see and I feel silly.

  He gathers me closer and kisses my temple. “I can’t leave you with lady blue balls. That’s shit-boyfriend territory.”

  “That’s not a thing,” I say, unable to contain my amusement.

  “It’s totally a thing. You just don’t notice because you have them constantly.”

  “I really don’t.”

  “How often do you touch yourself?” he whispers.

  My face burns hotter, but I make myself answer, “I don’t know. I haven’t tracked it.”

  “Once a day?”

  “No.”

  “Once a week?”

  It takes me two tries before I manage to say, “Maybe.”

  “When you do, do you touch here?” His fingers trail from my collarbones down to my breast, and he teases the nipple until it hardens into a tight peak.

  My throat locks, taking away my ability to speak. Before I met him, I never touched my own breasts that way. But after he kissed me there, I did try to replicate the way he made me feel. I wasn’t successful.

  “I guess I don’t need to ask. I already know you liked what I did last time.” He adjusts his body position slightly, and in the next instant, the heat of his mouth closes around my nipple. He sucks and strokes with his tongue, and I feel the draw deep inside. I can’t help the sound I make—half gasp, half moan. “You made that same sound. I fucking love that sound.” He switches to my other breast and mirrors his actions there. I try not to, but I make that sound again. I grasp at the bedsheets, clenching them tightly as I writhe beneath his mouth.

  “I wish I knew how to get that sound when I touch you here.”

  With that, he smooths a hand over my stomach, down to the curls between my legs. A finger eases between slick folds and circles my clitoris with languid motions. My breath tears, and my hips rise sharply against his hand. It’s so close to being what I need. So close. But still so far.

  “Faster?” he asks in a low voice.

  I can’t answer.

  “Harder?”

  I stare into the darkness, quietly raging against . . . everything. But mostly myself. Why am I like this? Why can’t I change? Why can’t I speak up?

  “Should we stop, Anna?” he whispers.

  My eyes flood with tears that slowly spill down my face and soak into the blankets. “I don’t want to stop.”

  He’s silent for a long span of time before he captures one of my hands and kisses the knuckles, sucks on the tip of a finger before nipping at it, and then guides my hand between my thighs to my sex. “Let’s try this, then,” he whispers, maneuvering my fingers so they’re pressed against my most sensitive place. “I can’t see you. I won’t know what you’re doing. You don’t have to say a single thing.”

  “Quan, I can’t—”

  He silences me with an openmouthed kiss as his fingers sneak between mine and stroke my clitoris, trapping my hand beneath his as he touches me. Just like before, it’s so close to being what I need. But still so far.

  Only this time, my fingers are right there, and the temptation to do as he suggested is nearly unbearable. I fight it. I try to do the good thing. I succeed.

  For a while.

  But the longer he kisses me, the greater the temptation grows. My hips push against his fingers, seeking the kind of caress that’s eluding me. He doesn’t give it to me. He can’t. He doesn’t know how. But my fingers are right there, and they’re impossibly slippery from the force of my need. Every muscle in my body draws tight as an A string.

  One of my fingers twitches, betraying my control, and I rub myself the way I like. Just a little, I tell myself. Just a little. I cry out against Quan’s mouth as my arousal sharpens almost painfully.

  “That’s it,” he whispers as he pulls his hand away, leaving me to touch myself freely.

  I shouldn’t, but I do it again. And then again, moaning his name. My sex clenches hard, and my hips jerk.

  “Don’t stop,” he says, kissing my temple, my cheek, my mouth, my jaw.

  I do it again, and the sound of my fingers fluttering over my slick flesh is loud in the dark of the room. Loud, and starkly erotic.

  “So fucking hot,” he whispers in my ear, and I glow inside at his praise.

  Driven by the desire to hear more, I cave in, and I touch myself with abandon as I lick his lips and spear my tongue into his mouth, bite his bottom lip, his chin, suck on the strong cords of his neck. I rise quickly toward orgasm, but then I hover at the edge, unable to go over, as insidious thoughts invade my head.

  I must look so funny right now, touching myself when I have this beautiful man here. I should have sex the right way, let him do the touching. I should be easy to pleasure. I should orgasm for him instantly, multiple times, every time, any time he wants me to. People would laugh at me if they saw.

  He kisses me and whispers encouragement as I tremble in his arms. But he doesn’t quite drown out the voices in my head. They have gotten too loud. My hips twitch as I undulate against my hand, chasing a release that remains out of reach until sweat covers my body.

  His hand strokes my inner thigh, and my heart lurches. I freeze, afraid he’ll investigate what I’m doing and find out how I need to touch myself, how strange I am. I don’t want him to know. He can’t know.

  “I can’t—it’s not—we need to stop,” I say, and it sounds like pleading.

  “Okay. We’ll stop.” His words are husky, rough, but he does as I ask. He stops. He rolls onto his back and pulls me partially onto his chest, where I hear the wild beating of his heart, feel the deep billowing of his breaths. Farther below, his sex is like a brand against my leg, stiff and hot.

  A sense of failure makes me want to cry. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he says.

  “But I didn’t. And you didn’t.” I can’t bring myself to say what we didn’t.

  “We did a lot.”

  “You’re not angry?” I ask.

  “No, I’m not angry,” he all but growls as he hugs me tighter. “I’m fucking proud of you. I’m honored that you trusted me. I’m not angry, not even a little.”

  “You’re still . . .” I shift my leg and move my hand from his chest downward. He stops me, pinning my hand against his stomach.

  “Next time maybe,” he rasps.

  “You want there to be a next time?”

  “Yes, I want there to be a next time. I want there to be lots of times.”

  “You might get really . . .” I’m not sure how to phrase it in a way that sounds good and settle on . . . “sexually frustrated. If you keep waiting for me.”

  “Then I’ll get sexually frustrated,” he says.

  I almost tell him that by choosing to wait, he’s putting pressure on me, but I don’t. This isn’t just about me. It’s about both of us. He has his own reasons for needing things to be a certain way, and I respect that.

  Feeling wrung out and exhausted, I ask, “Do we sleep now?”

  “Are you inviting me to stay?”

  I’m tired, but I smile. “Yes.”

  “Then yeah, let’s sleep now.”

  * * *

  —

  The insistent ringing of a phone drags me back into consciousness. I must not have been asleep for long. My hair is still damp with sweat, and I feel uncomfortably messy between my legs. Groaning, I push myself into a sitting position.

  “Let them leave a message,” Quan murmurs sleepily.

  “I can’t. That’s my mom’s ringtone.” I slip out of bed to grope around the floor blindly for my dress.

  I find something that feels dress-like and pul
l it over my head, only to have it fall just below my butt. It must be Quan’s shirt, but it’ll have to do. I find my way to the door and go to my living room to hunt for my phone, turning on the lamp on the end table as I go. My phone’s stopped ringing, and I can’t remember where in the world I stuck it (a common problem for me). I look all over—on my coffee table and bookshelves, under my couch pillows. I even check inside my shoes and get down on all fours to peer under my couch.

  “It’s in my jacket pocket.”

  I glance over my shoulder, and the sight of Quan makes my heart sigh. He’s leaning casually against the wall, shirtless, wearing only his jeans, which ride low on his hips. I touched all of that, that skin, that ink, without seeing any of it. It’s a shame that we did everything in the dark.

  Except if it wasn’t dark, I never could have done what I did.

  Was that why he suggested it? Not for himself, but for me?

  His gaze sweeps over me, dark, intense, possessive even, and I become aware of my bent-over, kneeling position and the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear. He must have quite the view. I straighten and yank on the hem of his T-shirt, embarrassed and self-conscious. But I also feel immensely desired and sexy, things I’m not sure I’ve ever truly felt before.

  My phone starts ringing again from within his pocket, and I hurry to fish it out. It’s almost midnight. This can’t be good.

  “Hi, Ma. Is everything okay?”

  “You finally picked up.” There’s an odd muffled sound followed by a long, high-pitched keening. I’m so unfamiliar with it that it takes me a moment to fully comprehend what it is. It’s crying. My mom is crying.

  I have never, not once in my entire life, heard my mom cry like this.

  “What’s going on? Where are you?” I ask.

  “The hospital. It’s your ba. I thought he was sleeping,” she says before she breaks into heartrending sobs.

  “W-what happened?” Possibilities flicker through my mind, each one worse than the one before it. Pressure builds in my head, so great that my scalp pricks and tingles.