Page 15 of For Real

“I promise.”

More splashing. Behind my eyelids, I tried not to imagine the shimmering rush of water droplets down his body. Then I felt him—not so much the shape of him, but the heat of him—and I closed the towel around him, realising only at the last moment that I was now effectively hugging him.

He made another of his unabashedly happy noises. “That’s so nice.”

“Are you a virgin?”

I opened my eyes. Startled at myself, more than anything. Why the hell had I asked that? And so bluntly. It was absolutely the opposite of my business.

He went rigid in my arms and yanked the towel away, spinning round to glare at me. “I said I was shy, not sexually stunted.”

God, what had I started? “You’re still very young. It’s actually perfectly normal—”

“Jesus, I’m not a virgin. The first time I had sex I was fourteen.”

Something flared inside me, as hot and sharp and sick as acid. “Toby, I—”

“It’s not what you think. It was my best mate at school. We said we’d take turns, so I let him do me, but then he wussed out and never spoke to me again.” He shrugged. “But I’ve got laid since. A bunch of times, actually.”

He sounded so proud of it. As though he was still keeping count. “I’m sorry I…doubted your promiscuity. It’s just, well, you’ve seen me.”

“Yeah.” He stared up at me, still holding the towel tight around his neck. “Yeah, I have.”

“So, what’s there to be shy of?”

He sighed heavily and rather patronisingly. “Maybe the fact you look like you, and I look like me?”

For a moment, I had no idea what he was getting at. I half thought he might have meant old. And then I remembered the praise he’d lavished on me. At the time, I’d attributed it to a kind of power-intoxication and the heat of the moment, but I had, once again, misjudged my boy. He’d meant everything. Every word. Of course he had.

“Oh Toby.” I hardly recognised my own voice. “You do know you’re beautiful, don’t you?”

He was red again. “I’m okay. Not like you. Not like I’m supposed to look.”

“How are you supposed to look?”

“I don’t know…taller, stronger, more muscular. Less acne.”

“Toby, Toby.” It was like some terrible enchantment. The more I said his name, the more I wanted to. “Please. Let me…” I had no idea how I was going to finish that sentence. But it didn’t seem to matter.

My hands had covered his, and the tightness of his hold, almost imperceptibly at first, began to relax. I saw, felt, sensed the tension leave his body.

“Yeah,” he whispered, sounding almost drugged. “Yeah.”

The towel slipped, exposing one shoulder, a little of his upper arm, and the sweep of his clavicle with its dark-red rosettes. His eyes, pupil-dark and hazy, did not waver from mine.

God help me. For whatever reason, he trusted me.

I could probably have stripped him and seduced him, and he would have let me, but I was powerless with tenderness. I dried him, uncovering him piece by piece, blotting up water with the towel, my fingertips, occasionally my lips. I stroked his slender muscles, his fragile bones. I kissed the inflamed places of his skin.

He quivered. “Fucking hate it.”

“It’s not severe. Are you using a benzoyl peroxide cream or gel?”

“Tea tree oil. My mum doesn’t believe in chemicals.”

“Just as effective.”

He didn’t reply.

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