Shameless

by Nina Lemay

It’s dark, except for a lamp lit somewhere in the living room, out of sight. The apartment is sleepy and quiet. I wrap myself in one of the robes (floor-length, made of the same soft cloudlike material as the towels, like some luxury spa) and emerge from the bathroom. My bare feet slap on the floor. I’m starting to feel like that virgin again. I half-expect to find him stretched out on his side, patting the bed next to him.

  Instead, he’s fully dressed, propped on the edge of the living room couch and leaning over his laptop. The screen casts a cool glow over his features, making him look like some kind of angel or saint.

  He glances up when he hears me. “Feel better?”

  I nod. And then he pats the seat next to him and a manic little giggle escapes from me.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  I go join him on the couch. The leather squeaks softly under my weight.

  “You wanted to talk,” I prompt. He closes the laptop and his eyelids flutter over his eyes for just a moment, like he’s bracing himself.

  “I did. You know that nothing serious can ever happen between us, right?”

  I swallow. “One hell of an opening statement.”

  He shifts uncomfortably, then sits up straight. His hands grip the couch near his thighs and his gaze catches mine and holds it like a magnet. “I can’t stay away from you.”

  It’s so frank, and raw, that I don’t know how to react. I giggle nervously. “That one is much better.”

  “It’s not a line, Hannah. Not just big words to get between your legs. I mean it and that’s why I’m just trying to be as honest as possible. Because both things I just said are true.”

  I shift uncomfortably.

  “This can’t go anywhere serious, for the reasons I already told you before—”

  “What makes you think I want this to be serious? You think I want something from you?”

  “No. I just want to put it out there, so you know what you’re getting into. And so you can decide whether you want to get into it in the first place. Because I’m not going to lie and say whatever you want to hear to get something from you and leave you disappointed.” When he gets nervous, I notice, his French accent becomes more pronounced and he even makes a mistake here and there. He rubs his eyes. “I can’t stay away from you. You’re beautiful, you have an incredible energy about you, like an aura I’ve only seen in a handful of people in my life, and—” he trails off, heaves a sigh. “God, what am I doing. You must hear it a hundred times a night.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah. Wish I’d met you somewhere else.”

  He says nothing.

  “Except in your case that’s actually the truth.” It’s not a question.

  “It doesn’t matter what it is in my case,” he says softly. He leans in and his hand inches toward mine, which is resting lightly on the leather seat next to the outside of my thigh. I hold my breath. “The question is you. Do you wish you’d met me somewhere else?”

  Do I? My breath catches and emotion wells up in me, shocking in its suddenness. My eyebrows sting and tears prickle my eyes. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing in the world that I wish for more.

  “So what I wanted to ask you is, can you handle going forward, without knowing where it will end? No expectations, no promises. Like you said. Two adults who know what they want.”

  His hand pauses less than an inch from mine. I feel the heat emanating from his skin. But he doesn’t touch me, doesn’t even brush against the outside of my little finger. That would be manipulation, persuading, seducing. I should know. I do it a hundred times a night.

  But his words throw me completely. I don’t know if I should get up and slam the door or be happy, be flattered that he thinks of me as a responsible adult who takes charge of her desires. It’s the kind of persona I’ve always taken such pains to craft, no matter the cost, even when it made me uncomfortable or downright miserable. Playing at Jessa when deep down I’m Shoshanna.

  But here there’s no one, no camera phones, no Facebook and no clique of would-be prom queens to read over my status and approve. No one to show off to, just us. In the dark. And when push comes to shove, is this the kind of person I could be? The kind of person I want to be?

  I got so used to being in the spotlight of small-town high school, calculating my every action and word to please. And now, behind closed doors, I have no idea what I truly want.

  Well, almost no idea.

  “What I want” is sitting on the couch right next to me.

  And he is saying he doesn’t want to date me, because of this and because of that and in the end the reasons don’t matter, only the outcome matters.

  And, like a weak little girl who can’t resist the piece of candy with the razor hidden inside, I reach for him.

  The bathrobe is a snow-white puddle on the floor by the couch, next to the smaller dark puddle of his t-shirt. Under his shirt, he’s fit, not like a guy who lifts weights all day, but sinewy and muscular. I gaze down at the flat plane of his belly with that soft trail of hairs running down and disappearing under his belt. He’s beautiful. Not like I imagined—I didn’t have much to compare him to anyway—but much better. He doesn’t have that baby-soft hairless teenage-boy skin, like—like certain people. And he has that air of strength about him; his muscles ripple a little under his skin with every movement.

  I can feel his gaze taking me in, from the fresh knee bruises to the childhood scar on my thigh, my navel, my hipbones, my ribs, my tiny breasts, the wet strands of hair plastered to my collarbone. He’s seen me before, I remind myself, up close and in detail. I thought that would make it easier, but it doesn’t.

  His hands follow his eyes, and his lips aren’t far behind. I straddle him and his kisses travel down my neck, into the hollow at the base of my throat, down the line between my breasts. I move on top of him and realize he’s hard, the outline of his cock pressing into the underside of my thigh. It makes me shiver a little, or maybe it’s just everything that his hands are doing and his mouth is doing and all my nerve endings singing a chaotic symphony.

  Yet the whole time, my head feels floaty, like a balloon trying to soar to the ceiling only to be yanked back again and again by the cruel child at the end of the string. I’m supposed to lose myself, to sink into it, to become unaware of anything but what we’re doing—isn’t that how it happens in all the smutty books? I shed everything like a tired old skin, all my past experiences and hangups and insecurities and doubts, and become one hot puddle of pleasure. Being turned on is supposed to wipe my brain till there’s nothing but burning, insatiable desire.

  But instead I seem to develop seven extra senses. I see and hear and feel every creak of leather, every rustle, the faint hum of electronics in the background. I see every tiny ridge of his lips, every bit of stubble along his cheekbone. I’m turned on, probably more so than I’ve ever been, but the more turned on I get, the more I realize I’m terrified.

  He runs his tongue along the edge of my right breast and gently tongues my nipple. Out of sheer instinct, I pull away and jolt a little when I realize what I’m doing. Heat spills under my skin and I pray he doesn’t notice.

  But he does. He looks up; his eyes are heavy-lidded, but the usual shrewdness goes back into them when his gaze meets mine.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. My voice is breathy.

  He pulls me down, his hand cradling the back of my head, and kisses me on the mouth. I let myself relax, melting into his lips.

  “If you don’t want to do this—”

  “I do,” I assure. “I do.”

  His hands rest on the small of my back as I rock back and forth. His jeans are rubbing my thigh raw, so I reach down and unbutton them, slide down the zipper. My hands are shaking a little. He catches them in midair and cradles them between his palms.

  “Hold on a minute,” he whispers. I don’t get it until he takes me by my waist, gentle but firm and strong, and lifts me off him, depositing me onto the couch. He gets
up and disappears into the bedroom for a moment before reemerging with a familiar gold foil wrapper in his hand.

  Just like that. No tug-o-war, no didn’t you start your pill already, no I can’t feel anything with that stupid thing, don’t you love me? It’s so simple, matter-of-fact. That’s how grown-ups do it.

  My heart gets stuck somewhere halfway up my throat.

  Emmanuel settles down next to me, the condom between us on the couch. “I didn’t even ask. Would you rather go to the bed?”

  “I… I’m okay.”

  I’m not okay.

  He nuzzles my neck, carefully pushes my damp hair out of the way and kisses behind my ear. Little jolts of sensation travel up and down my spine, but when he pulls me close again, panic wells up, overpowering anything else I might be feeling. It floods me, tension locking up my thighs. I stare down at them, so pale and vulnerable and only so much thicker than his arms. I try to picture him between them, driving his condom-clad cock inside me. Excitement and sheer terror war within me even as my hands pull down his jeans. I reach in and my palm settles over his cock, thick and smooth and hot to the touch.

  He’s bigger than my first, and bigger than any of the few guys I’ve hooked up with. He feels harder too, steel under a thin layer of silk.

  My heart starts to hammer against my sternum. My mouth goes dry.

  Emmanuel groans softly. His eyelids flutter closed and his face relaxes, his head leaning against the back of the couch in bliss.

  Why can’t it ever be this easy for me? Someone puts his hand down my pants and I’m halfway there. I gulp, my alarmed gaze not leaving his face, watching for every shift in expression.

  I don’t know if I’m still okay with this.

  Maybe because I’ve gone over it in my mind, whether I admit it or not. I had my idea of what it would be like to have sex with Emmanuel and it probably had as much bearing on reality as any of the smutty novels, just like it had been with the ones before him. Even with my first, when I didn’t expect anything because I had no frame of reference. And every single one after that. Once they got hard, once I let them past a certain point, they pulled a Mr. Hyde. The guy I thought they were was gone, and this new person, this single-minded, glaze-eyed, slack-jawed person, would push my head down onto his dick so I’d give him a blowjob, even as I tried to wiggle away and he had to grab on to my hair. Or he’d stuff himself up inside me the second the condom was on, grunt himself to a two-minute orgasm and then roll over, contented, leaving me with a sticky mess of lube between my thighs and a faint burning sensation to show for it. Or he’d ask me if he could stick it in my ass, and when I said no he’d tell me too bad because my pussy is so slack.

  It didn’t take long to figure out it was either all of them or the overwhelming majority. The only thing that ever varied was the weirdness and grossness of the requests. And their dick size.

  Even as Emmanuel pulls me closer, I realize I can’t bear it. I can’t stand to have my self-made illusion shattered. I don’t want him to turn into someone else once the condom is on. It would be too much, the one disappointment that puts an end to what’s left of my innocence.

  And I would rather just get up and walk away.

  He eases his pants off, tosses them to the side. He really is beautiful. His cock is thick and straight, a dusty pink in color. The dark hair above it is neatly clipped and his legs are strong and fit as he stretches out and sits up to reach for the condom wrapper.

  My thighs spread over the couch, I watch him smooth it on himself. I hope it doesn’t show how much I’m trembling.

  His hands settle onto the tops of my thighs, guiding them wider as he lowers himself.

  “Hannah?”

  My head snaps up like I was just wakened from hypnosis. Emmanuel gazes down at me, concern in his eyes.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I force a smile that I’m certain is the fakest smile I’ve ever mustered. “Yeah. I’m fine, I’m just—”

  I draw in a breath, unable to utter another word or I’ll start sobbing.

  “Look, it’s fine, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  He sounds like he feels sorry for me. My heart clenches with shame and hurt pride and a bunch of other things I don’t even have words for.

  “That’s not it,” I say. “I want to do this.”

  His look shifts to doubt, then alarm. “Wait. Please tell me you’re not—”

  “No!” I blurt. “No. Of course not.” I laugh nervously like it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t know how to tell him that I’ve never come with a man before. Usually, when you tell a guy that, he just says something arrogant like I’ve never had a girlfriend I couldn’t make come, and then you have to fake an orgasm or he’ll get pissed off and say you’re an abnormality. Oh, and he can also always tell when a girl is faking. When you come your muscles clench and when you fake you can’t do that, blah blah blah.

  “It’s okay if you are,” Emmanuel points out. “I’m not weirded out by that.”

  “Yeah,” I snort. “A virgin stripper. What is this, a Christian soap opera?”

  He doesn’t smile. “Well, I don’t know what it is, but you don’t look comfortable.”

  My face is on fire. I look away, suddenly hyperaware that I’m naked. Gooseflesh races up my arms; I hug myself and pull my legs up on the couch. I can’t bear to look up at him, so I only hear his sigh and a rustle of clothes as he pulls his jeans back on. He sits next to me and throws the bathrobe over my shoulders.

  “Was it something I did?” he asks softly. His hand rests between my shoulder blades and I can feel its heat even through the fluffy fabric. I shake my head.

  “Hannah… I already told you, I’m not going to lie to you to get in your pants. It is what it is. And if that doesn’t work for you, that’s okay. Maybe we should stop it right here.”

  I raise my head. My mouth twists like I’m about to full-on ugly cry, so I drop my forehead back onto my knees. “That’s not it. Of course I want to do it. You’re—” my voice cracks a little, but I go on anyway. “You’re beautiful. And you’re sweet.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t want you to turn out like the others.” My whisper is so soft it’s like I’m saying this to myself and not him. I’m not even sure he heard me.

  I feel him shift closer to me, and his arm circles my shoulders, light but reassuring.

  “Hey, do you just want to go to sleep? Take the bed, I’ll fold out the couch.”

  “No, I—”

  “You’re tired. It’s five in the morning, get your rest. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, all right?”

  I reach for his hand in a feeble protest. He shakes his head. “Okay, okay, or not at all. It’s all good.”

  I gulp, feeling like the world’s biggest failure. I’m not tired, I want to say—except I am, I just don’t feel the familiar hollowness in my bones underneath the hum of adrenaline. I’m simultaneously exhausted and full of energy. And I don’t feel relieved when he picks his shirt up from the floor, not in the slightest. I want to stop him, but don’t know how. I’m filled with regret. I had the most beautiful thing in the world right there, offered up to me, and I let it slip away.

  And now I’m probably not going to get another chance. He’s not that kind of guy, and either way, a weak and whiny girl who doesn’t even know what she wants isn’t exactly a turn-on.

  Emmanuel doesn’t wait for my answer. He scoops me up like a small child and carries me to the other room. It’s dark, the curtains drawn. The only light comes from the tiny green light of the laptop charger on the desk.

  He lowers me onto the bed. The sheets are thick and soft; I sink into them, instantly at ease and comfortable. Before I know it a blanket settles over me like a cloud. I peek out from underneath it to see Emmanuel’s silhouette on the side of the bed.

  “What about you?” I whisper.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch. Don’t w
orry about me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” His tone is carefully neutral, too carefully. Underneath, I swear I hear a note that’s hard to describe. It’s not anger or disappointment like I’d expect. It’s sadness.

  “Go to sleep, Hannah, okay? I’ll turn off the alarm so you can sleep in.”

  With a rustle, he starts to get up. One more second and he’ll be out the door, out of my reach.

  I prop myself up on my elbow, reach out and catch his hand.

  “Don’t go. Sleep here. With me.”

  He pauses and looks over his shoulder; it’s too dark to see his face. “Are you sure?”

  “If it’s not weird, I mean.”

  “No,” he says after a while. “Not weird.”

  I listen to the rustling of clothes as he gets undressed, then the mattress tilts ever so lightly when he climbs under the blanket on the other side. The heat coming off him is like a furnace. His arm brushes my shoulder, his hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. I wonder if he’s completely naked. My fingertips trail lightly down his forearm, onto his flat, taut belly—until they hit the waistband of his briefs.

  A slight shiver courses through him. “Hannah.”

  “Sorry.”

  He rolls over and cuddles me. It’s so unexpected that for the first moment I’m at a loss. He throws his arm around me and pulls me close like I’m a teddy bear, his leg over both of mine, affectionate and proprietary at the same time—in a good way. He heaves a happy sigh.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Very.”

  I turn my head and touch my lips to his temple. His eyes flutter open. “You’re not going to let me sleep, are you,” he whispers.

  No, I’m not.

  My hands explore him, slip under the waistband of his underwear. His hips press into mine and he’s hard again, with nothing but that layer of thin fabric separating us. His kisses start at my shoulder and progress down, past my collarbone, down my chest onto my stomach. With a sharp intake of breath, I draw in my belly button, but he’s already up, moving to kneel between my legs. I kick off the blanket and the cool air hits my overheated skin.