Somehow we manage to move to the futon because it’s clear this night is going horizontal.

“So what now?” I ask as he touches my arms, my hair, my waist. He can’t keep his hands off me, and I’m pretty sure I want them all over me.

“I guess that’s up to you.”

I run my finger along the waistband of his t-shirt, my thumb grazing the hard planes of his belly. He’s mine. This man is mine and I’m terrified, but certain at the same time. “I know what I want.”

“What do you want?” he asks, his lips quirking up.

“I want my first.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “So sure. I want to know what sex feels like. I want to know what it’s like with someone I’m in love with.”

He swallows, breathes hard. “Harley, you know this is going to be like a first time for me too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never had sex with someone I love,” he says, running his hands through my hair, letting it fall through his fingers. All the while he never takes his eyes off mine. “Sex has always been separate. I’ve never been in love before, so this is like a first time for both of us in a way.”

The moment curls in on itself, and I am sure time and space have narrowed to only the two of us, here on his couch. There are no cars outside, no sounds, no noise, no buildings, no night, no day. It is Trey and me, only us, only now, only this. He takes the pad of his thumb, brings it to his tongue, and licks it. He presses his thumb against my shoulder and rubs off some of the tattoo concealer. “I’m giving you a new one soon. But I still like to see it on you because it reminds me of the night we met. And you were different than anyone I’d ever known, and I wanted to know you, and then you came back into my life. Like it was fate.”

I watch him rub his thumb across my shoulder, wetting and re-wetting it, like a restorer returning a work of art to its original glory. I don’t know that my red ribbon is glorious, and I don’t even know that it’s what I want anymore, but it’s a part of me, and it’s going to become a better part of me.

Then he’s done and with one finger he pushes off the strap of my dress, letting it fall to my elbow. He bends his head to kiss my shoulder blade and I shiver at the slightest touch. He reaches for my hands, pulls me up. Now I’m standing and his arms are around my back.

“I want to undress you,” he says in a hot, hoarse voice as his fingers reach the zipper of my dress, and he unhooks it.

He starts to slide down the zipper, but I can feel his hands shaking and he can’t undo it.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. Just nervous I guess.”

“You are? I never pictured you being nervous.”

“I am,” he says. “Because I want it to be perfect for you.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. We can keep practicing if it’s not,” I tell him, running my index finger softly against his cheek, tracing his scar.

“Sign me up for lots of practice then,” he says and returns to the zipper, easing it open, then gently pushing the dress past my shoulders, over my breasts, to my waist. He lets go and the fabric falls into a silky pile on the floor. I step out of it, still wearing my heels. His hands follow the dress, down my hips, over my thighs, brushing my skin, and I melt into his touch. It all feels so natural and so right. He kneels at my feet, then slips off one shoe, and I’m back in time, picturing the night on my stoop when he took off my socks after I’d seen Cam. So much is similar, but so much is different. Here he is again and we still want each other, but we want so much more, and we’ve let ourselves not only voice it, but feel it. We have finally given ourselves permission to let in that thing we barely understand.

He runs his hand along the arch of my foot. I don’t have a foot fetish, and I’m glad he doesn’t either, but there’s something so tender and caring about the way he’s undressing me as he removes my other pump and I stand barefoot now. Every move, every touch is like the sweetest caress. Every thing he does he does with care, and I feel like a new girl with him. Because I’m here with him, not for him. I haven’t been ordered, I haven’t been bought, and there are no step-by-step instructions given in advance. We are living each moment, seeing how each moment feels.

Picking up my dress and my shoes, he brings them over to a chair, laying them down neatly. It’s a small gesture, but the little things matter, and I kind of love that the dress isn’t wadded up.

When he returns, he looks me over, and there is something like reverence, like wonder, in his green eyes as if he can’t believe he’s here with me.

“Will you take off the rest of my clothes?” I ask in a nervous voice. I know he will, but I don’t want to take anything for granted, and I want to let him know what I want.

He groans, and it’s both an appreciative and terribly needy sound as he loops his arms around my back and unhooks my strapless bra. I grab it and toss it to the chair. In seconds his hands are on my breasts. “They’re so fucking perfect. I can’t stop touching them,” he says as he cups my breasts. “I know I’m supposed to be fighting any kind of addiction, but fuck that. I want to be addicted to your breasts. They deserve a shrine, Harley. I want to build a temple and dedicate it to your breasts.”

“What will you call your temple?” I ask, playing along, grateful for a moment of levity in the midst of this intensity.

“My favorite Ds.”

I laugh. “You wish. They’re not Ds. Cs though.”

“C, D, E, F, G. Whatever they are, I fucking love –” he emphasizes that last word “–having my hands on them.” Then he squeezes them. Hard. “Sorry, I’m supposed to be gentle.”

“It’s okay. I like the way you touch me.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” I say. “You make me feel incredible.”

“You are incredible,” he says.

He kneads them roughly once more, brushing his thumbs over my nipples. He moans and I sigh at the same time, and we both laugh.

“You forgot one more item to take off,” I tease.

“I didn’t forget. I just want to savor it.” Then he slides his hand between my legs. His eyes widen when he feels the cotton panel of my panties. Touches me. Learns how turned on I am. I rock into his hand. “Fuck savoring. I need to get these off.”

Then he is no longer slow or lingering. He is frenzied and fevered as he pushes them over my hips and down my legs. I am naked before him and I love being naked with him.

He eyes me greedily, drinking me in as if he’s desperate for what’s next.

“I want you, Harley. I want to sleep with you. I want to make love to you,” he says, breathing out hard as he starts tugging off his own shirt. “And I’ve never fucking said those words before. I have never said make love. I have never wanted to make love. And I think those words are cheesy and ridiculous, but they’re not cheesy and ridiculous with you. Because I’m so fucking in love with you that I will say things I’ve never said. I’m dying for our first time.”

Sparks of electricity zoom through me, and every single inch of my skin, of my body, of my heart is reaching for him, needing him, wanting him. I am longing for something I’ve never had before and now I can’t imagine being without. I am hot all over and tingling everywhere. My veins, my blood, my bones, everything is singing out to be touched.

I grab at his waistband, fumble at the zipper, tug down his pants, all while he’s kicking off his shoes, trying not to trip over his clothes. Somehow, he manages to step out of his jeans and is now only in his boxer briefs, and we are both panting and frantic.

“Condom,” I say. “Do you have a condom?”

“Yeah.” He steps away from me to reach for a foil packet in the nightstand next to his futon.

Then he pushes off his underwear, and he’s naked and gorgeous and throbbing. I draw in a deep breath and bite my lip briefly. This is going to happen. This is real. I’m going to say goodbye to my virginity, and I’m going to have him inside of me, and I honestly don’t know how there’s room for him in me.