Harlow

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I was on the forward deck of my boat, in a chaise lounge chair I had dragged outside. It was a perfect day—warm enough to sunbathe in my skimpiest bikini without being too hot, sunny and bright with a nice cool breeze. I had my laptop balanced on my thighs, working on my script.

I was a dramatic actress, primarily known for my roles as the leading lady in romances. Most of my roles, however, had been somewhat…saccharine, in my opinion. There had always been a part of my artistic soul I’d wanted to explore, a darker, more turbulent side. Martin had been very clear that if I wanted to act in a role like that, I’d have to transition gradually and carefully, first out of romance into more traditional drama, and then into deeper, darker roles. Or, if I were dead set on a darker-themed project, it’d have to be an indie project, at least to start. Fine, whatever. I’d keep doing the lighter fare for now, as long as the roles were serious, and not gratuitous tits-and-ass fodder.

In the meantime, just for the sake of flexing my artistic muscles, I’ve been steadily pecking away at a script idea I had back at NYU. It was the kind of thing you’d probably see on LifeTime, based on real-life events. This had actually happened to a friend of mine during our junior year.

Also, writing was the only diversion capable of keeping my mind off a certain tall, dark, handsome, and complicated individual, whose name I was not, at the moment, even allowing myself to think.

I was starting to feel like a sixteen-year-old girl with her first crush—all but doodling his name on the back of my Trapper Keeper, inside hearts. Or, worse yet, my name with his last name, in a heart with an arrow through it. Which, admittedly, I’d done at sixteen with my crush on Jimmy Riviera, the captain of the varsity football team and de facto god of my high school.

Back to the script, I ordered myself.

Another thousand words, and I would allow myself to daydream about Xavier, and maybe even indulge in a little…ahem…doodling. Meaning, I’d be tracing the letters of his name onto my clit with the tip of my two middle fingers.

I forced my attention back to the screen of my laptop, which had gone to sleep while I was talking myself out my unscheduled daydream. I dropped myself back into the story, channeling my friend Janelle’s voice as I wrote.

Once into the flow, I lost myself in it for a good hour. But then my characters—the hero who saved my heroine from her villainous ex-fiancée—started messing around in her kitchen, which sent my own my mind racing down a rabbit trail which led, inexorably, to Xavier. Last night. The intensity of his kiss. The slight tremble in his hands.

The hunger in his eyes as he stood on the dock, staring up at me. I wondered if he’d been able to see how my nipples had puckered under his scrutiny. If he’d been able to see how I’d clenched my thighs together. Surely he’d been able to hear my heart pounding in my chest as I forced myself to stand with a confidence and boldness I only partially felt.

I imagined him standing on that deck again; I would be naked, and he would be shirtless and barefoot in a pair of those tight jeans he liked. He’d leap onto the yacht and scramble up the deck, too impatient to get his hands on me to bother with stairs. His mouth would devour mine, and his hands would be everywhere…

My fingers delved under the laptop, dipping under the waistband of my bikini bottom. I exhaled shakily, thoughts of Xavier’s heated, hungry gaze and wandering hands and firm strong lips making me tremble before I even started touching myself. The thought of his zipper straining brought my finger to my clit, and an image of him sliding down the zipper—or better yet, me tugging the zipper down—to reveal a thick hard cock, the bulbous head slick with precum…

Oh fuck.

Fuck…

I was moments from orgasming when I heard a footstep on the deck, a shuffle, and a throat clearing. My eyes flew open, and there he was, in the flesh.

Standing at the bow, dressed in a plain white crewneck T-shirt, the front of which was tucked behind a thick black leather belt with dark-wash blue jeans, and a pair of faded, well-loved Converse All-Stars. Those fiercely green eyes were locked on me.

My cheeks flushed as I tried to subtly withdraw my fingers from my bikini bottom, hoping it hadn’t been obvious what I’d been doing.

I closed my laptop and rested my hands on it, noticing with no small amount of embarrassment the telltale sheen on two of my fingers. I wondered if he’d notice that.

“Hi,” I said.

He gave an odd, abbreviated wave of one hand. “Hello.” He cleared his throat. “May I come aboard?”

I smiled. “Yeah, of course. No need to ask.”

He stepped onto the deck and crossed to lean against the railing next to me. “I would not want to assume I would be welcome,” he said, staring at the deck between his feet. “Especially after my…abrupt departure last night.”

“Of course you’re welcome here.” I twisted to bring my legs over the side, facing him, and set my laptop to my left. “And about last night…Xavier, I hope I didn’t do anything—”

“I know this is a horribly cliché thing to say, but it was not you, Low. It was me. You were perfect, and I was…I am…” he sighed, trailing off. “I was me.”

I tipped my head to one side, puzzled by that. “Well, yeah. You’re you. And I like you.”

“But what happened, my panic attack…that is a part of who I am.”

I set my laptop underneath the chaise lounge and patted the cushion next to me; Xavier sat down nervously, leaving a good two inches between us.

“My mom gets panic attacks,” I said. “She’s learned to manage them through medication, meditation, and exercise, but she still gets them. So…panic attacks I understand.”

“At the risk of sounding as if I think I’m some special case…the source of my panic attacks is not something any of those remedies will help.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Oh?”

“Perhaps you’ve noticed, and perhaps you haven’t,” he said, staring out at the water, “but I have difficulty with physicality.”

“Like being touched?”

He nodded. “It is partly a sensory issue. When a person touches me, and I mean even basic, everyday physical contact, such as shaking hands or bumping shoulders in a crowd—the physical sensation of the touch overloads my senses.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “How does that…I don’t know—how does that manifest, I guess?”

“Have you ever come in contact with a live electrical current? Even a small one. Like something not grounded properly, or shorting out.”

I thought about it. “As a kid, I used to go grocery shopping with Mom. We always went to the same store, and we went every week. We’d go through the aisle at the back where the cheese and lunchmeat and all that stuff is, right? The cooler section. Well, you know those little grates at the front of the coolers, where the cold air comes out? I would run my fingertips across those grates or openings as we walked down the aisle, and there was this one spot, right in front of the blocks of cheddar cheese, where I’d get shocked when I ran my fingers over it. Not bad, just like…a zap.”

He smiled, nodding. “I know exactly what you mean.” He rolled his hand in a circle. “Well, for me, someone touching me feels much like that. I feel it throughout my whole body. The contact…I don’t know how to describe it—it sort of briefly but intensely short-circuits the part of my brain which registers touch. I’ve always got so many thoughts running through my head—which, incidentally, is why I sometimes seem out of it or distracted—and then adding touch is just one thing too many for my brain.”

“So…does it hurt?” I asked, glancing at him.

He shook his head. “It does not register as pain, exactly. Well, it does, but—” He broke off with a sigh. “It is difficult to accurately describe. I mean, pain is pain, so if I bump my knee or break an ankle, it would feel exactly as it does for you. It is not a heightened receptor issue, on a physiological level. It is mental, neurological, but it manifests physically.” He was silent for a moment. “So, last night…”

I followed where he was going. “So if even shaking hands or bumping someone accidentally in a crowd is overwhelming, I suppose that means something like hugging, or holding hands,” I met his gaze, “or kissing…”

“To describe the sensory experience as intense would not be even remotely accurate.” He held my gaze, and I saw a silent plea for understanding in his eyes, which were unusually open in terms of emotional transparency. “I do not mean to say unpleasant. I…the time I have spent with you, I have been able to tolerate and enjoy the physical aspect of our…relationship, or—or however one would appellate it.”

“Tolerate?” I swallowed hard, more upset by that word than I should have been.

He sighed sharply. “Low, please. You must understand. Tolerating physical touch is, for me, a victory. My own brothers know not to touch me, because it is something I typically cannot handle. You—” he glanced down, and we both watched his hands find mine, a gesture I now found more significant than ever, “—there is something about you. I don’t have the words to encapsulate it. I imagine you would find the word ‘tolerate’ in reference to the physical aspect of what is occurring between us as an insult, or painful. But from my perspective, toleration of physical affection is an enormous step forward.”

I stared down at our hands, our fingers laced together. When was the last time I’d held a man’s hand? Just held hands, like this, innocently? Harrison, most certainly. And he was not, generally, a physically demonstrative person, at least in terms of nonsexual affection such as holding hands.

“So, last night, your panic attack, that was because you were just overwhelmed by…everything?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.” A pause. “Mostly.”

I looked at him, then, my head swiveling sharply to pin him with an inquisitive gaze. “Mostly?”

He sighed again. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered, more to himself.

“But you did, and I heard it, so…what does that mean? What else is there?”

He shot to his feet and paced away to stand at the bow of the boat, hands fisted at his sides. He was ramrod stiff and straight, shoulders hunched as if to ward off a blow.

“Xavier?” I stood up and followed him, standing beside him, close but not touching. “What is it?”

He was exuding anxiety and angst and pain, every line in his face etched into a rictus of unease and agony. “To explain would mean telling you a story I have not told another person since it happened.”

“Not a good story, I’m guessing.”

He shook his head, laughing bitterly. “Assuredly not.”

“Do you want to go inside?” I hesitated, and then put my hand on his forearm—noticing now how he tensed immediately, and then slowly relaxed. “And…you know you don’t have to tell me, right? You don’t owe me any explanations. I mean, I’ll be honest and say I would like it if you did tell me, and I would obviously hold your confidence in me as sacred. But…you don’t have to tell me.”

“I would be more comfortable outside, I believe,” he murmured. “Perhaps it is time I shared this. It has haunted me for several years, and it does affect you, or at least concern you, so…yes. But I would ask you to not interrupt me until I am finished, because the telling will not be easy for me.”

“Not a word, I promise.” I pivoted to put my back to the railing, leaning against it facing Xavier. Our hands remained laced together, and he spoke with his gaze on our joined hands, my fingers twined with his.

“As you can probably guess, I was not what you’d call popular.” He laughed, as if the very idea was so preposterous as to be comical. “I had little to no control over my tendency to lecture endlessly on whatever topic I was interested in at the time, and I was obviously just…different, in every way. I would finish assignments in a quarter or an eighth of the time as everyone else. I would correct teachers frequently. If we were assigned a book to read, I would finish it in that class period, while the teacher was still talking—and I’d be able to recite the entire thing verbatim, as well as everything the teacher said.”

He waved a hand.

“I only say this to exemplify my oddity. In high school, this behavior set me apart, obviously, and I’m sure you’re familiar with how cruel high school students can be. Well, when you’re as vastly different as I was, that marked me as a target for cruelty of every kind imaginable. I was beaten up regularly, locked in lockers, made fun of mercilessly even by the unpopular kids…I was set on fire in chemistry class, once. Imagine a torture devisable by teenagers, and I experienced it. Rocks were thrown at me on the way home from school, and bricks even, a few times. I was attacked with paintball guns in drive-by shootings.” He glanced at me, seeing my horrified expression. “I survived it, clearly, and developed mental and physical toughness because of it. I learned to fight back, until the bullies didn’t dare approach me except in large groups.”

“Jesus, Xavier.” I whispered it, choking back tears at what he’d endured.

He smiled at me, nudging me with his shoulder. “None of that, if you please. I am stronger because of it.”

I smiled back. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, huh?”

He nodded, exhaling a deep sigh. “Exactly.” He traced the back of my hand with a fingertip, following the blue veins up to my wrist, sending thrills and chills racing through me. “So. The story is this. When I was fifteen, almost sixteen, I was walking home from school when I was approached by a girl who lived in the same neighborhood. Her name was Brittany Delany-Price, and she was a senior from a well-to-do family, the most popular girl at the school, beautiful, captain of the cheerleaders and the dance team, and prom queen and all that. Every guy in the school had a crush on her, including me. I never even bothered to pretend to myself that she would ever give me the time of day, because I simply knew better. Being a senior, she had a car and a license and usually left school with all her friends. So, when she walked up next to me that afternoon, I was surprised.”

He was silent a while, and then he continued.

“She told me some story about getting her car fixed and all her friends having other appointments, necessitating her walking home. Being wary, I didn’t say much. We walked a few blocks, until we came to the place where she would turn to go to her house and I to mine. She grabbed my arm and asked if I wanted to come over and hang out with her. I was…apoplectic with disbelief. I mean, she was being nice to me. Showing interest. I was fifteen, and she was the hottest girl in the school, the girl every guy had fantasies about, and she was talking to me. Asking me to hang out at her house. Instinctively, I would have said no. But I told myself I had to at least try stepping out of my comfort zone. I told myself to act like my big brothers—be bold, be confident. Step out of my comfort zone and see what happens.”

My heart constricted at the bitterness in his voice, at where this story was going. I didn’t say anything, though, and continued to listen and hold his hand.

“So I accepted her invitation, and we walked to her house together. Being the only child of busy, wealthy parents, the home was empty. She fixed us a snack—soda and pretzels and homemade brownies. She told me she’d always thought I was, quote, ‘cool and chill, if a little weird,’ end quote. She told me she’d always wanted a chance to hang out with me, but just never got the opportunity. She chatted with me—at me, really— and then asked if I wanted to see her room. It felt unreal, you know? Was this happening? She wanted me to see her bedroom?”

Oh, no. No.

He continued. “So up we went. She invited me to sit beside her on the bed.” His voice dropped to a barely audible murmur, his words tense and hard with remembered pain freshly felt. “She asked me if I liked her. I nodded. She asked me…if I thought she was pretty. Even looking at her was difficult, in that moment, because my nerves and fears and desires were so overwhelming. All I could do, again, was nod.”

He paused here, his breathing rapid, his hands clenched, the hand holding mine squeezing so tightly it hurt, but I didn’t dare let go.

“Her next words…I hear them in my head…I can hear her voice, even now, as if she had just spoken to me. She looked at me, her expression…sultry, I suppose is the correct word. I didn’t know that, then. Reading people and situations is even more difficult for me than touch. Anyway. She looked at me with this weird expression on her face, and said, ‘Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?’”

Another pause.

He shook his head, laughing bitterly. “Once more, I could only shake my head.” He swallowed hard. “She was wearing a sweater, a thin, soft sweater, stretchy. Pale blue. V-neck. She twisted to sit so she was almost but not quite facing me. She said, ‘You know, I’ve always thought you were cute, Xavier. I’ve always known you have a crush on me.’ And then she reached up and drew down the neck of her shirt, and her bare breasts emerged, propped up when she released the sweater. I was…I could not breathe, could not believe what was happening. I could not look away.” He closed his eyes, speaking through clenched teeth. “‘You can touch me, if you want,’ she said. ‘I know you want to. Go ahead.’”

I didn’t want to know the rest—I could guess. But he continued, and I listened.

“I was fifteen, a virgin in every way. Seeing breasts for the first time—well, you can imagine how immediate my natural hormonal response was. I reached up one hand, which was shaking like a leaf. I put my hand on her breast. I remember it being soft, and heavier than I’d expected—” Here he broke off with a fierce blush, stammering. “I—I—um. That is irrelevant, my apologies.”

I squeezed his hand. “It’s fine. It’s your experience—and your observations are not irrelevant.”

“But I do not wish for you to think—”

I cut him off. “Xavier, it’s fine. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it, please.”

He nodded, breathing out sharply. When he started again, it was haltingly, his gaze on the deck between his feet. “Brittany…touched me, then. She reached out and put her hand on my…on my crotch. Over my jeans.” He swallowed hard, several times. “I…the touch was—it was far, far too much for me. No one had ever touched me there, in that manner, and I…you know. Um. I lost all control over myself, right there, in my pants. Words like embarrassment or mortification are not nearly sufficient.”

“Oh…my god,” I breathed.

He laughed bitterly. “I wish the story ended there, but unfortunately it does not.” He sighed. “So, with my embarrassment complete, a very visible and obvious wet stain on the front of my jeans, sticky and wet and horrible, Brittany jumped up off the bed, laughing as she righted her sweater. Her bed faced a computer desk, you see. The screen was dark, which I had assumed meant it was off. It…was not. She shook her mouse to wake up the screen, laughing hysterically. ‘I did it, bitches!’ she shouted, looking into the webcam. ‘I made the little twerp come in his pants!’ And then she turned back to me, pointing, laughing. ‘Oh my god, you’re so dumb it’s honestly adorable,’ she said. ‘You actually thought someone like me could want someone like you? You really are naive, aren’t you?’” He choked, but continued. “She had live-streamed the entire encounter. The whole situation had been on a dare, a bet. The whole school saw. I went to school the next day and everyone was pointing, laughing, calling me ‘preemie’ for reasons you can extrapolate.”

My heart hurt for him. How could anyone be so cruel?

He glanced at me, and his expression softened. He reached up and his thumb brushed my cheek, swiping at a tear I hadn’t realized had slipped out. “Such a tender heart.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand why she would do that. That’s…so vicious, so vile. So cruel. You were so innocent, so genuine.”

“We must account for the caprice of human cruelty, Low,” Xavier said.

I moved closer to him. Met his eyes with mine. “That probably scarred you pretty badly, huh?”

He nodded. “Trust was already difficult for me, and what Brittany did to me made trust nearly impossible. Especially when it comes to women. So, while I truly want to believe, and do believe you are nothing like Brittany, it is difficult for me to overcome my instinctual defensiveness.”

My heart squeezed. “Xavier, you have to—you have to know I’d never, ever do anything to hurt you.”

“I…I desperately want to believe that.” He was barely breathing, then, as I moved to stand in front of him, wanting to be closer to him, to comfort him.

His gaze on mine was searching. “You have questions, I believe.”

“I don’t want to push, or sound…insensitive. I just want to understand.”

“Ask, then, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.”

“Didn’t she give off any clues that she was being disingenuous? That she was leading you on?”

He lifted one shoulder, and dropped it again. “Perhaps, but I missed them if she did. Subtleties, clues, hints—I almost never read these correctly, if I notice them at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Social connectivity, awareness, and sensitivity are things I struggle with. Being around people overwhelms me. Crowds overwhelm me. Excessive noise or visual stimulation, being jostled, all of this triggers that sense of too much. And people are largely a mystery to me. I have read hundreds of books on human psychology, sociology—and I can recite them all. But…understanding people in situ?” He shook his head. “They say and do things I don’t follow, or understand. So when Brittany asked me if I wanted to come over, I doubted her motives, and I doubted her sincerity, since my experience thus far was that cool kids never liked me. That no one ever liked me, or wanted to be around me. But I wanted so desperately for her to like me that I ignored my fears. What would a clue of disingenuousness have looked like? A facial expression? I still don’t know what that would look like. If she was lying, how would I have known? She was speaking in a tone of voice which seemed nice and sounded interested.”

I frowned. “So…you never even suspected she was tricking you?”

Xavier shrugged. “Of course I did. I doubted it was real the entire time. But I forced myself to follow through, hoping against hope that it was genuine. At first I thought I was dreaming, and then I thought it was too good to be true. Which, of course, it was. So…was I surprised? As in I couldn’t believe it had happened, that she’d turned on me like that? No.” He sighed. “I absolutely believed it. I castigated myself afterward. Even now, it is difficult to think about or speak about that event, because the pain and shame and embarrassment are just as potent as they were then. But no, I was not shocked. What Brittany did? That is, to use a phrase from the popular vernacular…par for the course, in my life.”

My heart broke even further. “Par for the course?”

“Yes, meaning the common average.”

“I know what it means,” I said. “That’s just horrible. How could anyone be so cruel?”

He only shrugged. “Other than my brothers, and their respective significant others, my experience with the majority of people is that in their treatment of someone they do not understand or feel inferior to, cruelty is the norm. And nearly everyone misunderstands me and feels inferior to me, so…nearly everyone is cruel to me.”

“God, Xavier. I’m so sorry.”

He smiled, shrugged, and shook his head. “Such is life.”

I inched closer staring up at him, our bodies flush. His gaze was intense and inscrutable.

“You talked about not being able to read clues and hints correctly.”

He nodded. “Yes. I often miss even blatant sarcasm.”

“What about flirtation?”

“What about it?”

“Can you…I don’t know…read it? See it for what it is?”

He frowned, wobbling his head around in a gesture of uncertainty. “Somewhat. But I don’t trust it.”

“You don’t trust the person flirting with you, or your understanding of the flirtation?”

“Both. I don’t trust my own ability to detect whether a girl is flirting with me, or mocking me like Brittany, drawing me out for nefarious purposes. I do not trust, because Brittany taught me—no offense meant to you—that women cannot be trusted. I’ve learned that even when a girl seems interested in me, or appears to like me, it’s not real. It’s not true. If it seems too good to be true, it most definitely is.”

“So, when I flirt with you—” I said, tangling both of our hands together. “You don’t trust that to be real? You don’t believe that I actually mean it?”

“Well, flirtation is such a subjective thing, is it not? What counts as flirtation? Is it a particular look in your eyes, or tone of voice? A way of touching? Body language? What is simply your natural friendliness and kindness and extroversion—am I supposed to interpret that as flirtation?”

I laughed. “Wow, I never really thought about it like that.”

“Probably because most, if not all, of the people you’ve ever flirted with have innately understood flirtation and do not have any qualms about assuming your flirtation or potential flirtation is real and meant for them, and is genuine.”

Oh god, if only he knew. Most men, and some women, took the slightest hint of friendliness as flirtation—ohmygod, THE Harlow Grace LIKES ME. She’s flirting with me! And really, I just want a cup of coffee, or my check at the restaurant, and smiling at people is a natural response.

But now, the one man I want to know I’m flirting with him is incapable of understanding that.

I decided to try a different tactic with him.

I rested my hands on his shoulders, rubbing my palms gently up his shoulders and down to his chest in a gesture of affection—once again, at the initial touch, he tensed, and then after a few deep breaths, he seemed to relax.

“Let me ask you this, then.” I gazed up at him. “You trust me, right? Like, you believe that everything I’m saying to you, my flirting with you, spending time with you—you believe I really mean all that, right?”

He winced as if the question was physically difficult to hear, and harder to answer, sighing deeply before he spoke. “I am…trying. But it is…it’s very difficult. My instinct is to distrust, and my nature is to mistrust. So, I want to trust you—I want to believe you.”

“Could logic apply to this, in helping you trust me?” I said, letting my hands wander downward to trace his abs over his shirt. “For one thing, I’m a grown woman, not a high school girl. Not that adults can’t be cruel, too, but…I don’t have a circle of friends or a clique I want to impress. There’s no one whose approval I want or need. So, what reason would I have to be in any way disingenuous about my interest in you?”

His gaze flicked down to my hands, where my fingertips were following the grooves of his abs. “As much as I hate to admit this given your fondness for calling me Spock, but…logic does not always win out over emotion, because, in reality, I am not actually Spock.”

I laughed. “Figures the one time I want logic to work in my favor, it doesn’t.”

He was quiet, then, and I let the silence breathe, let him think. Hesitantly, he reached out with one hand to hold a lock of my red-gold hair that had come out of the loose chignon. He ran it through his fingertips, following the spiral.

“Low,” he said, tentatively, “I hope I’m being clear, here, that this is an issue of mine, and my distrust of your intentions is not meant as a reflection of my assessment of your character.”

“Can I be honest?”

“I hope you always have been, are, and continue to be, in all circumstances, honest with me, even to a fault.”

That stung, a needling dart piercing my knowledge of the fact that he had no idea who I was and that I continued to keep that information to myself.

I slid my hands around his waist to his back, pulling him up against me, relishing the hardness of his body and the heat of him, his masculine scent and virulent green fire of his eyes on mine. “It’s kind of hard not to be a little hurt that you don’t trust me.” I spoke over his objection. “I know you have painfully good reasons not to, and that you can’t help it. I just…I wish there was something I could do to prove to you that I’m really, truly interested in you.”

“Why, though?”

I tilted my head, confused. “Why what?”

“Why are you interested in me?”

I couldn’t help a laugh, a gentle, disbelieving huff as I slid my fingers through his hair. “Why am I interested in you, Xavier Badd?”

“Yes.”

“Because I like talking to you,” I said, leaning closer, inching my face gradually nearer and nearer to his. “You’re funny, and weird, and unpredictable in the most delightful and fun way. You’re smart—the smartest person I’ve ever known, and that challenges me. I don’t feel inferior to you, because I know myself, and I know my skills and talents, and I’m comfortable and confident in them. I know I’m smart. So, I’m not threatened by how intelligent you are, or jealous, or anything. I just feel challenged by talking to you and being around you, and I like that.”

His chest swelled, and the corners of his mouth tipped up in a smile, as if he was daring to believe me. “I see.”

“I have fun hanging out with you. I never in my life thought I would ever enjoy fishing, but I did. Watching the eagle catch that fish was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen. Watching that show with you was fun and relaxing—and to be honest, I don’t relax well around other people.”

“Nor do I.” He made an odd face, somewhere between a smirk and frown. “And to be honest, I cannot say I was especially relaxed, although I did enjoy the experience immensely.”

“Why couldn’t you relax?”

He hesitated over his answer. “I was…distracted. Focused on…” He blinked, swallowed hard. “On the sensation of…cuddling with you, to use a word one might label emasculating.”

I smiled up at him. “It’s not emasculating at all, Xavier. There’s nothing unmanly about a guy cuddling with a girl. It’s just showing affection, demonstrating that you enjoy each other and enjoy being close, touching, being together.”

His smile returned, and had gained confidence. “Thank you for that clarification. So, yes. The physical sensation of cuddling with you precluded my ability to relax, but nonetheless, it was an experience I shall treasure always.” His expression darkened. “At least, until I freaked out.”

“A hiccup, that’s all,” I said. “All of which leads me to the other reason I like you—you’re sexy. I’m just crazy attracted to you on a physical level.”

His frown was adorably befuddled. “Sexy?”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Yes, Xavier.” I feathered his hair away from his eyes, and then slid my fingertip down his temple to his jawline. “Sexy. Hot. Gorgeous.” I leaned closer yet, so my lips brushed his. “You need more? I’ve got more. Sinfully sexy.”

I wasn’t sure he was breathing. “Please do not say things you do not mean, Low.”

I dove my hands under his T-shirt, untucking it from behind the belt, finally getting my hands on his bare skin, on those steely abs. “Oh, I mean it, Xavier. I mean every single word.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Your touch is setting my skin on fire.”

“Should I stop?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. Please…don’t stop.”

“Good, because I like touching you.”

He released the lock of my hair he’d been toying with, and his hands drifted downward to alight, like nervous birds, on my waist. “The thrill of my hands on your body is electric. It sends a strange, manic energy through me.”

“I like it. The feel of your hands on me, I mean.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Quite a lot.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Is this flirting?”

I touched my lips to his cheek, not quite a kiss, really, just a brush of my lips across his skin, just beneath his cheekbone. “No, I’d say this is quite a bit more than just flirting.”

“Oh.” He swallowed hard again, and his hands moved down to rest on my hips—he was taking liberties, exploring a little, and it made my heart beat like a tribal drum. “Another question, then, if I may—when I showed up here, the last time, and you were naked…you put on your kimono, and we watched that show.” He blinked, his fingers tracing around the waistband of my bikini bottom. “More than once throughout that evening, you bent over or otherwise moved in such a way as to allow me a glimpse at your bare flesh. Was that intentional? If so, why?”

I took a huge risk, then, and pushed his shirt up, gently easing it off his head and tossing it onto the chaise lounge. I touched a kiss to his jawline, next. “Yes, Xavier, it was intentional.”

He tensed again as I dragged my fingernails down his chest. “Why?”

Once again, I couldn’t help laughing. “I was hitting on you, Xavier.”

“Which is like flirting, but more aggressive or intentional.”

“Yeah, exactly.” I pressed our torsos together, flattening my tits against his chest, wrapping my arms around his neck. “You want me to break that down for you?”

He nodded, his palms exploring my back, roaming from shoulders to waist to hips in random patterns; the warmth of his touch sent shivers down my spine, and had my thighs clenching. He was touching my back, innocently enough, and I was responding like this? God, what was it about this man that affected me so potently?

“It feels weird to explain this kind of thing in so many words,” I said, laughing, “but here it goes. Basically, when I bent over so my robe opened, or when I crawled across the ottoman to get the popcorn, that was an invitation.”

“To what?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “What do you think?” His hands stilled on my back, his eyes hunting, darting, as if he was nervous to say the answer wrong. I laughed again, and kissed another spot on his jaw. “This isn’t an exam, Xavier. I honestly want to know what you think the reason would be behind me doing that.”

“Because you like me.”

“Well yes, but I’ve said as much. Try again.” I tugged at a strand of his hair. “Why do you think I would intentionally expose my naked body to you, Xavier? Just say what you think, the first answer that pops into your head—go.”

“Because you want me to touch you.”

I grinned. “See? You understand more than you think.”

“It’s not a matter of understanding, but one of believing you really mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t you believe it? What reason have I ever given you to think I wouldn’t mean it, or that I don’t truly want it?”

“It just…” He sighed, eyes closing momentarily. “It falls under the umbrella of ‘if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.’ I want so badly to touch you, Low, to be allowed the glory and wonder and privilege of touching you—an angel made flesh—and I do not believe myself worthy. Just being near you is a privilege. To be your friend, to spend time with you is a privilege. To be allowed physical intimacy with you? How can that be real? I would never, could never presume that someone as…as incredibly, stunningly, blindingly, perfectly lovely as you would want me to put my hands on you.”

“I’m not just allowing it, Xavier,” I said. “I want it.”

“Truly?” he breathed.

Rather than answering in words, I slid out from between him and the railing, led him by the hand inside and up to my room.

The sliding door to the balcony was open, letting in a cool breeze off the water, and the sound of squawking gulls and the gentle lap of the water against the hull.

Xavier stood in the middle of the room, shirtless in his jeans, belt, and sneakers. He was a vision of lupine male sexuality, all hard muscles and planes and curves and ridges, with that messy dark hair and those vivid green eyes. He was staring at me as if he’d never seen me before, his gaze raking over my body hungrily. His hands were at his sides, rubbing up and down his jeans, a gesture I don’t think he was aware of.

I was nervous too, for some reason. My heart was pounding, and my skin was tingling as if his gaze had a physical effect on my flesh, and my thighs were clenched, my core throbbing.

I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold back my desire for Xavier—his body tempted me, called out to my hands, my lips. I wanted him naked, and I wanted him beneath me, above me, behind me. I wanted to hear his voice crying out in guttural pleasure; I wanted to feel his hands on my skin, possessive on my curves.

I bit my lip, the mental images I was torturing myself with making my core clench and throb and seep the liquid essence of desire.

I tugged my hair loose from the knot and shook it out, combing my fingers through it. I took a step toward Xavier, who was standing frozen in the middle of the room. Reaching behind me, I untied my bikini top—a halter that tied at my neck and at my back; I used my elbows to keep the cups pinned against my breasts, drawing out the moment. I paused like that for a moment, watching Xavier’s reaction: he shifted his weight from foot to foot, his jaw clenched, and he swallowed and licked his lips, hands clenching and unclenching then rubbing his palms against his legs.

My smile was lopsided and shaky—as if I’d never taken my clothes off for a man before. But somehow, this felt different. His gaze, the intensity of it, the hunger in it, the need, the utter self-control he displayed as he stood stock-still, waiting, watching, not allowing himself to move—this was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Xavier made it that way, just by virtue of who he was.

Desperate to feel his touch and to feel wanted simply for who I was, I dropped my arms and let the halter fall to the floor at my feet, standing topless in front of him.

He took a step toward me, and my heart raced in anticipation. “You are…” He shook his head, as if unable to finish the thought.

I closed the space between us, stopping when my nipples brushed against his bare chest. “What, Xavier? What am I?”

“Perfect,” he breathed. “Fucking perfect.”

I palmed his abs with both hands, ran my palms up his chest, down his biceps. “So are you.”

“Your skin…it looks so soft.”

“Touch me and find out,” I murmured.

“Where?”

I laughed at his question. “Anywhere you want. Just touch me.”

“You’re always laughing at my questions.”

“Not at you, not in the sense that I think you’re stupid for asking. It’s just…no one has ever said things this way to me before.”

He reached up, and my nipples hardened in anticipation of his touch, but his hand went instead to my face, cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His fingertips traced the column of my throat, and then his palm skated over my bare shoulder. My whole body trembled under his touch, and yet he still didn’t reach for the obvious fruit. He glided his hand down my arm, to my forearm, and then to my hand—his fingers interlaced with mine, and his eyes locked on me.

“Low, my attraction to you is…it’s more than I know how to process. If you’re not…if this is a game or a joke, please—tell me now. Because I can’t handle—”

I lifted up on my toes, silencing him with a kiss. A brief one, meant only to shut him up, to prove my desire.

Only, it morphed into something more.

I felt him tense at the contact of my lips, as he always tensed at first touch, but then he relaxed, shifted forward to tower over me so I had to tilt my face up. He made a low noise in the back of his throat, and he let go of my hand, pressing his hands to the small of my back and deepening the kiss.

I moaned—an unaffected noise of genuine surprise at the power of his kiss, at the hunger of it. He went from zero to sixty in an instant, and my tongue instinctually slid out to seek his. Slowly at first, but with increasing fervor and confidence, Xavier kissed me. I felt him hardening behind his zipper, felt his breathing hitch.

I buried my hands in his hair, lifting up onto my toes to kiss him harder still, deeper yet, and then let my hands wander down the strong expanse of his back. I cupped his ass, moaning again at the firmness of it, the hardness, and then—god, yes, finally, his hands left the small of my back and drifted up and around to my front. They alighted at my diaphragm, just beneath the low hanging swell of my breasts, paused, and he broke the kiss, his forehead against mine.

I waited, my breath caught in my throat. I wanted to beg for his touch, but I didn’t—not yet.

What was he doing to me? He made me feel as if this was as new to me as it seemed to be to him. His reverence, his hesitation…he wasn’t a hard-charging, take-whatever-he-wants super dominant alpha, and yet he was still utterly male, intensely masculine, and totally himself. He made me feel like what he’d said I was—the most beautiful woman in the world. And this feeling he gave me, it meant more to me than all the attention the media could give me—because it was about me, about who I was, about how he saw me, absent of any guile or pretense or ulterior motive.

The tremble in his hands brought me out of my thoughts and back to him, to us, to the moment. He slid his hands upward, gently taking the weight of my breasts into his palms, and his thumbs grazed over my nipples.

I gasped audibly at the blazing thrill of sensation that shuddered through me, and he froze.

“Don’t stop,” I murmured. “That feels amazing.”

He lifted my breasts, ran his palms over my nipples, and then let their weight fall, swaying and bouncing gently. I hooked my fingers in the front pockets of his jeans, pulling him against me even as I leaned my upper torso away so he could keep touching me. His gaze was locked on my tits, on his hands moving over them, watching himself caressing and exploring their weight and shape, and I felt his cock hardening with each passing moment until he was surely so hard it had to be painful.

Keeping my fingers hooked into his pockets, I walked us backward until my knees hit the bed, and I fell to my back, laughing at his surprised expression as I brought him down onto me.

“Hi,” I breathed.

He was on top of me, his weight on me, one hand fisted against the mattress beside my ear, his hips between my thighs, his erection at my core, separated by his jeans and my bikini bottom.

“I’m going to kiss you again,” he said.

“Good,” I breathed. “I love the way you kiss me.” I laughed, interrupting him before he could speak. “Yes, I absolutely mean it.”

He laughed as he bent to claim my mouth, and this time there was no hesitation, no freezing, no tensing, just Xavier taking what he wanted—my kiss, my mouth, my lips.

My core ached, throbbed, begging wetly for attention, and as the kiss exploded our hunger for each other devolved into a mad need. I ground against him, unable to stop myself. He ground back against me instinctively, and his hand palmed my breast, cupping it, thumb and forefinger tweaking and twisting my nipple until I gasped into the kiss.

“They’re sensitive,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be sorry, just be gentle.”

He caressed and fondled my breast with exquisite gentility. “Like this?”

“Yes,” I breathed, arching my back, “god, yes…just like that.”

I ran my hands across his back, scratching my fingernails down his spine to the waist of his jeans. Traced my fingers around to his navel, to the button and zipper. He sucked in his stomach, gazing down at me.

“I want to touch more of you, see more of you,” I whispered.

“Okay,” he said, backing away, preparing to open his jeans.

I caught at his hands. “Let me.”

He sat up on his knees, hands at his sides, watching as I knelt in front of him and slowly slipped the button out of the opening, and then drew the zipper down. Immediately, his erection, straining at the gray cotton of his underwear, sprang forward, freed from the prison of the denim and zipper.

He rolled to his back and shimmied out of the jeans, tossing them to the side and then, before he could rise up again, I moved to lean over him, letting my tits drape against his arm and chest. I skated my palm over his stomach, teasing the waistband of his underwear.

He breathed slowly, deeply, evenly, his eyes roaming my face and then down my body, devouring the way the pale flesh of my tits looked against his tanned skin. He stared at my breasts for a moment or two and then swept his gaze downward, to my core. I was so wet with arousal, the fabric of the bikini bottom stuck to my nether lips, outlined and obvious. Blushing, I resisted the urge to cross my thighs, to cover up the evidence of my need.

He bit his lip, his eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, chest swelling with a deep breath. I caressed his chest and stomach, letting him get used to the feel of my hand on his skin before I dared do anything any further. I was on my side, facing him, propped on an elbow, leaning most of my weight onto Xavier; his fingers trailed over my breastbone, down between the valley of my breasts, to my stomach, hesitating at the waist of my bikini. His eyes met mine, looking for demurral or disapproval; I rolled to my back and let my thighs splay apart.

He followed me, rolling to his side now, and his palm spread over my navel and carved down my left leg, fingers exploring the delicacy of my inner thigh. My breath caught when he dragged his middle finger up the seam of my core, over the fabric of my bikini bottom.

“Another gasp,” he noted. “You enjoy that.”

I nodded. “Keep going. Please.”

His gaze flicked to the loose bowknots at each hip, all that was keeping my bikini bottom fastened. Moving his hand maddeningly slowly, he reached out and captured one loose end of the ties at my left hipbone, tugged, and the knot came undone, the strings falling open; his fingers danced across my belly, low, following the waistband to the other knot, which he untied. I forced myself to keep breathing, to let him go at his own pace. But god, I wanted his touch. I wanted an orgasm I didn’t give myself. I wanted his fingers, his mouth. His tongue.

He drew the small triangle of cloth away from my core, and I lifted my butt up slightly so he could pull it free and toss it over the side of the bed. I lay naked, flushed with desire, aching, trembling, I waited for his touch.

His gaze widened as he stared at me, his eyes roaming my core—the tiny inverted isosceles triangle of reddish gold hair over my core, which I’d recently trimmed and shaped. His hand, once again, spread over my navel, his palm centered over my belly button. His breathing hitched, and he slid his hand downward, fingers first.

Please, please, please, I thought.

His middle finger covered my seam, and then slid with delicate gentility upward, eliciting a whimper from me. I drew my legs further apart, spreading my pussy open for him, letting him see all of me. My heart was hammering, nerves slamming through me as if this was my first time doing this. Was it his? I somehow thought it might be, but I wasn’t sure and wasn’t going to ask, not in that moment; selfishly, perhaps—I just wanted him to touch me. His touch was beautiful, soft, gentle, exploratory, strong…and I needed more of it. So much more.

I covered his hand with mine, placing my fingers over his. I guided his middle finger into me, inhaling a sharp whimpering gasp at the feel of his thick, strong finger inside. When he drew it out, I guided his finger, slick with my essence, to my clit. Showed him how to touch me—slowly, in wide circles around the hardened nub, occasionally flicking it or brushing side to side. He caught on rapidly, mimicking what I’d shown him.

Within seconds, I was gasping, and my hips were flexing, and my core was spasming and clenching around nothing.

He gazed down at me in concern. “Low? Are you…are you okay?”

I laughed breathlessly, burying my hands in my curls, whimpering at his touch. “Fuck yes, I’m okay—I’m so much more than okay,” I said, writhing against his fingers—he’d added a second finger to the first, smearing my leaking juices around my clit. “So good, so good. Don’t you dare stop.”

“You’re having an orgasm?” he asked, watching me carefully.

“Almost—almost. So close. Keep doing that—just like that, and I will.”

“I won’t stop.”

I laughed again, through a whimper, and grabbed at his face, pulling him toward me. “Kiss me while you make me come, Xavier.”

He bent over me, fingers circling, and his mouth claimed mine. His tongue hunted for mine, and the kiss stole my breath, the hunger in him, the power of his kiss, the intensity and the passion of it. He kissed as if kissing me was more important than his next breath, as if he could die if he didn’t kiss me.

I knotted my fingers in his hair, and when we broke to gasp for breath, I shoved his head down to my breasts. “Kiss me there,” I breathed, “taste me.”

He took me literally, kissing the side of my breast, and then again in a different spot. His fingers were still busily circling, bringing me closer and closer to the edge, and I didn’t want to get there—not yet. God, not yet. I wanted this to last forever, his weight on me, his fingers on my clit, his mouth on my tits.

“You taste amazing,” Xavier said. “Like salt and…and something else I can’t name.”

“Taste more of me,” I said, meeting his eyes. “All of me. I want your mouth on me.”

I sucked in a sharp breath as his mouth centered on my nipple and his tongue flicked it, and then lapped at it—when I whimpered, he repeated what he’d done to make me whimper. The other breast, then, and I was a writhing mess of need, gasping, whining, my hands tangled in his dark locks.

I was close, so close.

Heat shattered through me, pressure subsumed me. Need ran through my veins in place of blood. The orgasm that was building inside me was going to be nuclear, I knew.

But I still wasn’t ready for this to end.

I caught at his wrist. “Slow—slow down.”

“Is something wrong?”

I shook my head. “If you stop for a second and let me catch my breath, let me back away from the edge of coming, when I do get there it’ll be all the more intense for me.”

He busied himself kissing my tits, his lips and tongue paying homage, again and again, his kisses covering them all over. He lapped and licked, teased and flicked, and then suckled one nipple until I shrieked.

“Holy—holy shit, Xavier,” I gasped. “More.”

I guided his mouth to my other breast, and he suckled my nipple into his mouth again until I wrenched away, half screaming, half whimpering. The need to come was so sharp now it felt like a knife inside me. I lifted my hips.

“Touch my pussy again,” I whispered. “Make me come.”

He started over, gingerly delving his finger inside my channel, drawing my essence out of me and smearing it onto my clit, and then beginning small slow circles. When I started moaning and driving my hips into his touch, he sped up.

In moments, I was riding the ragged edge again, and I knew I couldn’t draw it out any longer—if I didn’t come right then, I’d go mad.

I needed to touch him, now, needed to make him come as hard as he was about to make me come.

I clung to his shoulders and let my knees splay apart even wider, heels driving into the mattress to provide leverage for the gyration of my hips into his touch, which was fast now, speeding up as I finally felt myself about to fall over the edge.

“Oh—oh fuck, Xavier, I’m—oh god—I’m coming, holy shit I’m coming! You’re making me come so hard, Xavier…don’t stop…faster! Yes! God yes!—fuck!—just like that!” I let go completely, let myself scream and thrash and chant his name, unable to stop myself, coming harder than I had in years.

He milked me through the climax, not stopping or slowing as I pumped against his fingers, whimpering and moaning as I came back down. Finally, I had to stop him, too sensitive to bear being touched any more.

I caught his hand, brought it away from my pussy. The rush of the orgasm made me crazed, made me daring—I brought his essence-slick fingers to my mouth and slid my tongue up his digit, tasting my own essence on him.

He sucked in a harsh breath. “What—what does that taste like?”

I smirked coyly. “Find out for yourself.”

He slid his finger into his mouth, eyes widening at the sudden assault of flavors and scents from my pussy. “Wow—wow.” His gaze slid down to my core. “Not what I was expecting.”

I’d thought I was done—unable to take any more touch, any more stimulation—but the heat and hunger in his gaze put the lie to that.

“Taste me,” I invited.

“Down there?”

I nodded. “If you want to.”

“You taste good,” he said, palms cupping my breasts as if he just couldn’t help himself.

“You could make me come again, if you did.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I want you to do what you want, Xavier.” I brought his mouth to mine for a slow but brief kiss. “But yes, it would feel amazing if you went down on me.”

“Then I shall go down on you.” He suited action to words without hesitation, sliding down my body to wedge his shoulders between my thighs.

I hooked my knees over his shoulders, propping myself up on my elbows to watch. His bright green eyes were focused on my slit, flicking briefly up to mine and then back down. Hesitantly, his tongue slithered out and drove up my seam; he made a surprised noise in his throat, and licked my slit again.

“Oh—oh god,” I murmured, the feel of his tongue and rasp of his stubble beyond heaven, beyond nirvana, beyond anything I’d ever felt. “More. Please, more.”

He gave me more—so much more. I didn’t have to tell him or show him anything, he seemed to know instinctively what to do, following the sounds I made, the way I writhed, to make me repeat the moans and movements. He stiffened his tongue, circling my clit with it like he had with his fingers, and then when I broke apart into gasping pleas for more, he lapped at my clit, faster and faster, in a vertical swiping of his tongue.

“Oh fuck—fuck, fuck!” I screamed. “God, yes! Oh please, God, Xavier—right there, just like that—”

I cut off with a wordless scream, coming even harder than the last time, shattering into a million spasming shards.

When I came back down from the orgasmic high, he was still eating me out, devouring me, and I pulled his face up to mine, wiping at the smear of wetness on his cheeks, laughing at his awed expression.

“Making you come—” he murmured, wiping at his mouth, “it’s—it’s the best thing ever.”

He fell to his back, staring at me sideways. I was gasping, still, limp and lifeless.

“You just gave me two incredible orgasms,” I said, rolling toward him. “I think it’s time to return the favor.”