“This is your favorite place to eat, huh?” Jake says when I come out of the bathroom.

“Yeah, I know it’s a little dumpy, but the food’s great. And it’s got a homey atmosphere, you know?”

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” he says, tone dry.

I imagine he’s been looking around my grad student one-bedroom while I was in the bathroom. Wondering why I would choose it over one of the best French restaurants on the Upper West Side.

But instead of asking, he hits me with a suspicious, “You really cook?”

“Yeah, I’m a good cook, too,” I answer, making my way over to the open plan kitchen.

“Like Cynthia Ha.”

“No, not as good as a Masterchef winner. But better than alright. I can make just about any Italian pasta dish you can name.”

I hear his footsteps on the wooden floors as he follows me over to the open plan kitchen and steps inside the arched doorway. “I don’t eat Italian food.”

“Seriously? I’ve never met an Italian who doesn’t eat Italian food.”

“I’ve never met anybody who hates Italians but knows how to make our food.”

Touché, I think to myself. He’s probably expecting me to explain, but instead I say, “I’ll make us an omelet. Cool?”

“Cool.”

I can feel Jake watching me as I move around the kitchen. “You’re more at ease here in your own space. That’s why you chose it over La Mirabelle, right?”

One of the reasons. “Plus, I needed to pee, and I would have had to use my stick to get around the restaurant.”

“So you don’t like going out?”

“No, I like it. It’s just been a long day, and I don’t have a ton of mental energy left.”

If I’m expecting him to let me off the hook for this date after hearing that I’m tired, I’m quickly disappointed. Because he doesn’t. “Gotta a question for you, Reynolds.”

“Okay,” I say, taking out the eggs and setting them on the counter. Cue all the questions about how I became blind, I think as I bend back down into the fridge. I run my hands over various packages on the two shelves designated for vegetables and meat until I find all the ingredient I like for making omelets—save the very Italian salami.

“What’s with all the hair? Feels like I got a bunch of faceless girls staring at me.”

I smile at the thought of my wig collection staring at him like the girls in class.

“It’s easier for me to keep my hair super short and wear wigs,” I answer. “A lot of people have, like, two. But I’m a firm believer that all women should have equal access to Black Girl Magic, so I have, like, 20. I know I have a problem. My best friend, Talia, told me already, so you don’t have to.”

“Talia, Talia…oh yeah! That’s the gal who didn’t come back for her final year because she got knocked up by—”

“Yeah, well, before she became world famous for that, she was just a cool best friend.”

“You miss her?”

“Yeah, of course. How about you?”

“She wasn’t here when I transferred in, so I didn’t know her.”

“No, I mean do you have a best friend? Like, a wingman?”

“Yeah, sorta. From high school.”

“Nice.”

“You got any friends you still keep in touch with from high school?” he asks.

“No,” I answer. Because Amber never went to high school, and Bella was homeschooled.

But instead of the truth I feed him the WITSEC story as I start chopping veggies for the omelet: “My parents died in the car accident that blinded me when I was seventeen, so it got weird with my high school friends after that. We don’t keep in touch.”

He makes a considering noise and says, “It’s almost like you’re two people, huh? Who you were before the accident and who you are now.”

“Yeah, almost,” I answer, putting every bit of concentration I have into not letting my voice quaver.

The omelet turns out pretty good, even using pre-cooked bacon bits instead of the salami I like.

Good enough for Jake anyway. He’s all compliments as we eat on my couch since I don’t have a coffee table—or anything but the most practical and essential furniture.

We make small talk about a few things as we eat. How he likes Columbia after transferring from Princeton. How he’s getting a dual MBA/JD because he’ll be taking over his family’s business and figures it will come in handy.

“What do you guys do?”

“Disaster clean-up. And I’m not trying to contradict anyone about whether global warming’s a real thing. But I will say business is good, and only expected to get better.”

I must look visibly startled, because he rushes to say, “I know it’s not altruistic like what you’re planning to do with your life.”

“No, it’s just…I thought your family might be into something else.”

“What? Mafia?”

I don’t even like saying the word out loud, so I just nod.

“Nah, I come from a long line of garbage collectors. Nonno put in a lifetime stint with Local 813 in Hell’s Kitchen. Dad just scaled the family tradition up.”

Hearing he wasn’t descended from made men makes my next decision that much easier.

Without asking if he’s done, I take his plate and deliver it with mine to the kitchen sink.

“Want me to do those dishes?” he asks.

“No, I’ll take care of them in the morning,” I answer coming back to the living room.

“For real, it’s not a problem…”

He trails off when I hitch up my skirt and climb into his lap, happy I took off the tights I was wearing earlier while I was in the bathroom.

“Oh, heya, Reynolds. What’s what?” he says. His voice is still calm, but I can feel his surprise in the way his chest tightens beneath my hands. And his excitement in the way his manhood swells to life as soon as it makes contact with my panty-covered sex.

I deliberately fix my sightless gaze in the direction of his voice and say, “Thank you for the lawyer.”

“You’re welcome,” he answers, tone bemused.

“So you really want to fuck me?” I ask him, giving him one last chance to bow out. “You’re that committed to having the blind girl experience?”

“Wouldn’t put it that way, but if you’re asking if I want this to keep going, then yeah. Most definitely.”

I rub my hands over his chest, exploring. He’s wearing a suit, which I did not expect but am not surprised to find. I heard the b-school guys can be formal. And I can feel lean sinew and unforgiving flesh underneath.

I push off his jacket and unbutton his shirt. But when I go for his undershirt, he stops me, catching my hands. “Walk me through this. Sex with you.”

“You mean sex with a blind girl?”

“I mean sex with you. What do you like?”

What do I like? The question catches me off guard because I’m way more used to being asked about my blindness. Even worse are the guys who’ve been afraid of hurting me. Like being blind makes me ten times more fragile than a sighted girl.

I finally come up with “Touching.”

“You want to feel my hands on you?” Without waiting for an answer, large hands find the top of my thighs, warm and firm. Fingers hook under and pull, so my core is suddenly aligned with the thick rod beneath his trousers.

I reach down to take him out, but he catches my hand again. “You want my lips on you?”

Again, he doesn’t wait for my answer. A sharp nose bumps against my chin as his mouth finds my neck. Lips, tongue, and teeth press into an erogenous zone I didn’t know I had. And though I’m used to being the one in charge, my head falls back to give him more access, and my hips start to circle, seeking what’s inside those smooth pants.

“Heya, Reynolds,” the lips say against my neck.

I mean to say, “Mmmhmm?” but it comes out a whimper.

“I’m going to take off this hair, okay?”

Wait…what? I come out of my daze. “You want me to take off the wig?”

“No, I want to take it off you. Can I do that?”

“You don’t want me to keep it on?” Boys prefer long hair. Even when they say they don’t, they do. The words float back to me. My mom’s explanation of why I not only needed to press my hair but start letting her put extensions in as soon as turned fifteen. There were no boys to impress in our remote cabin, but I never had the heart to point that out because I knew making me pretty helped her pass the time.

But Jake is telling me the opposite of what my mom claimed. “I guess you can,” I answer, not sure how else to respond.

I feel his hand brush the side of my face as he reaches for what Talia calls my “girl with a secret” hair, a sharp fringe of bangs and a straight waterfall of hair that stops right above my breasts. He deals with both the hair and wig cap beneath in one sensual sweep, and his arm moves away from my body as he sets it aside.

Cool air hits my scalp, and even though I’m still completely clothed, I feel naked.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me in that uncomfortable moment. “Did you think I wouldn’t want you without the wig?”

“I didn’t think about it,” I confess. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I’d been carrying my mom’s opinions about beauty around with me, especially after going blind.

“You never had sex without it?”

The answer is no. And though I’m not a virgin, I feel like one.

“Are we talking or fucking right now?” I snap, instead of answering his question.

He stills, his body tightening beneath mine. Then he says, “Don’t rush me, baby.”

He’s not snapping back at me. It feels more like a quiet command. At first. Then it begins to feel like punishment as he slowly takes my t-shirt off. Slowly unhooks the front clasp bra, and slowly takes it off.

Hands cup both my breasts and smooth thumbs make slow circles around my nipples as he starts slowly kissing my neck. It soon becomes unbearable.

“Jake,” I gasp.

“Don’t rush me,” he says again.

Another minute of punishment. It feels like hours. But I finally get why people make such a big deal out of foreplay because I’m ridiculously wet. I want him. For real now, not for play. The urge to regain control of the sex comes back to me with a vengeance.

This time he doesn’t just catch my hands when I reach down to unbuckle his pants, he pushes them away.

“Why?” I demand.

“You like being in control?” I can hear the lazy smile in his voice.

“Yes.”

“I asked you what you liked earlier, and you just said touching. If you wanted control, you should have put that in your terms.”

“It’s not something I’d put on a list of things I like,” I say. “It’s just something that is for me. My natural setting.”

“Okay, I’ll let you be in control.”

I start to go for his buckle, but he grabs my hands and says, “Next time.”

I tilt my head to the side because “There isn’t going to be a next time.”

“Too bad,” he says. “Guess you’re never going to be in control.”

And before I can protest, he captures my lips in a slow kiss.

Damn, he’s a good kisser. The stubble of his beard scrapes my face as he takes my lips. Drinking them in as his tongue slowly pulls on mine.

His hands come back to my breasts. Massaging them. Torturing them, while he slowly grinds into me below.

I soon become afraid. So much so that I have to pull away from the kiss to tell him on a gasp, “I’m going to come. I’m going to come if you keep doing this.”

“Then come.”

“No…I don’t want…I don’t want.” After so many years of taking, I’m not sure how to tell him what I want. What I need.

“You want me inside you when you come?” he asks, voice low and mean.

“Yes!” I gasp. Finally giving him the last piece of pride he’s been slicing off bit by bit.

A lifting sensation as he rises with the both of us off the couch. There’s no coffee table in front of the couch. No furniture to get in his way as he carries me to the bedroom, with my legs still wrapped around his waist.

My back hits the bed. There’s the soft whisper of clothes coming off. A small tearing sound that I recognize as a condom.

Then he’s on top of me. Heavy weight pushing me into the bed.

I can feel his breath against my face as his head aligns with mine for another kiss, but before he can, I say, “I need to touch you. Check that you have a condom.”

Awkward pause. And a hot wave of resentment washes over me because I have to say it. Usually, I just do it, no weird conversation needed. But the only thing more awkward than having this discussion right now would be having it after I tried to touch his cock again, and he pushed my hands away like he kept doing in the living room.

He reaches up and grabs my hand, guiding it between our bodies so I can feel the latex. But only for a moment. Then he brings the hand back up, entwining his long fingers into mine as he starts slowly kissing me. Kissing me so good that the awkward moment falls away and sooner than expected, the fear of coming too soon is back. He’s mostly naked now. I can feel all that skin against mine. Arms roped with muscle. Lean hard waist between my soft inner thighs. But I can also feel the barriers that remain. My underwear and skirt. I want them off. I want all of it off.

“Jake…Jake…” I say, voice trembling. All this fucking teasing. I want to come, but I don’t want to be disappointed.

“Relax, baby,” he says. “I got you.”

He rises, pulls my underwear to the side, and then starts easing into me, feeding me the longest, thickest dick I’ve ever felt.

I start coming before he’s all the way in.

“Oh, fuck!” I gasp out.

“It’s okay, baby.” He starts moving inside of me. Slowly stroking into my climax. I thought this was what I wanted. I thought this would stop the fear. But as the orgasm washes over me, hot tears spring to my eyes and ugly sounds fall out of my mouth, because it’s just so intense.

I hit his shoulder, slamming the ball of my hand into his arm. I don’t know why. I don’t want him to stop. But I feel so helpless. So vulnerable and scared.

“It’s okay, baby,” he says again.

But it’s not okay. I can’t stop the tears. I can’t stop all the emotions rolling over me.

“Want me to come, too, so you don’t feel all by yourself?” he asks.

What a strange question, but the answer is yes. I nod because my voice isn’t working right now. I’m too overcome by after light.

His thrusts speed up, but not for long. I guess he was on the edge, too, because he releases with a sharp expulsion of air, which I can feel hot against my cheek.

He rolls off me as soon as he’s done and I hear the sound of something dropping into the trash can next to my bed. The condom, I think, and wonder if he’ll go now. I want him to go now. Want him to leave me alone.

But he comes right back. Wraps me in his arms and covers both of my legs with one of his. It’s like the spoon position set to suffocating. I love it. The feel of his skin against mine. But I want him to go.

“You can go now,” I tell him.

“Don’t rush me,” he answers, settling his chin into the crook of my shoulder.

“I don’t do overnights,” I inform him.

“Sssh!” he says like I’m disturbing his sleep.

And I find myself silently cursing because I don’t do overnights, but…I like the feel of him. The hair on his chest and legs. The warm skin against my still hot body. Being able to sleep with a guy without having to worry about losing the wig…

I decide to let him stay. Just for a little while, I assure myself.

But when I wake up the next morning, he’s still there.

And when I’m making us coffee in the kitchen, he asks, “So when are we going on that date?”