Page 28 of The Match Faker

“What are you doing?” He grasps my wrists and pushes them down, bringing his shirt with them, and we’re stuck in another strange tug-of-war.

“I’m washing your shirt.” I cringe. Now that the water is no longer stagnant, it’s a bit stinky. “And you should probably let me wash the pants, too.”

“You can’t,” he says with a sharp intake of breath, his cheeks pink, his eyes a little wild.

“Why”—I try to lift his shirt again, but he keeps his arms pinned to his sides—“not?”

“Because you’ll see my…my…” He drops his focus to where I’m still gripping the wet fabric. “Belly,” he says, defeated. Finally, his shoulders droop. He gives in and lets me pull it over his head.

“I’ll just…” I hold the crumpled fabric in the air and turn away, hiding my smile. There are a lot of features in this crummy, old apartment I hate, but the in-unit washer and dryerin the small “mudroom” off the kitchen that leads to the fire escape isn’t one of them. “Give me your pants,” I say over my shoulder.

“They’re fine,” he says, but there’s no fight in his tone this time. The room goes quiet, the only sound the shuffle of denim, and then the denim lands in a heap on the floor next to my feet.

I spray the shirt and the jeans with a stain remover I made using dish detergent, hydrogen peroxide, and baking soda. It’s gentler on fabric, especially the flimsy stuff fast fashion uses, than the store-bought stuff.

“Normally, I’d let this soak a while.” The explanation is unnecessary, but he’s behind me, in my kitchen, with barely any clothes on, and I’m putting off turning around.

Eventually, I don’t have a choice. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, his hands gathered in front of him, covering up any suggestion of the body parts beneath the thin black fabric of his boxer briefs.

“You don’t happen to have a T-shirt I can borrow? Maybe some sweats?”

Every version of Nick I’ve met so far has been self-assured; even at the engagement party, surrounded by people he didn’t know, performing a role, his energy and poise invited everyone to take him or leave him without much concern for their choice. But Nick is so clearly out of his element now, and I don’t want that for him. He’s lean but not muscular. His body hair is dark, thicker on his chest than his stomach…or rather his belly. His nipples are pebbled and pinker than I expected.

I read in a fashion magazine that the lip color most flattering to a person’s skin tone should be a color match to their nipples. In practice, the lipstick I found didn’t wow me.

His, though, would make his mouth look kissable; more kissable than it already is.

I’d love to wear his nipples on my mouth.

“What are you staring at?” he asks. He glances at his chest because despite his question, it’s very obvious where I’m looking.

I’m not sure what possesses me, maybe the tendency to please men I can’t shake. The need rooted, according to Jade and her first-year psych textbook, in deep-seated abandonment issues.

The floor creaks beneath my feet as I approach him. I hold out my hand, my palm flat, and he stills. When he doesn’t back away, I place it gently on the soft curve of his belly. He hisses, trembling beneath my hand.

“Cold,” he says, though he still doesn’t move away.

The washing machine hums and clicks its way through the quick wash cycle, a soundtrack to the moment.

His skin is warm, soft. This close, I can see a collection of freckles at his hip, a dark tuft of armpit hair.

“I like your belly.”

He frowns, puts his hand over mine, but doesn’t remove it.

Dipping my chin, I clear my throat. “I know I was…weird…after the engagement party.”

He shakes his head, clasps my shoulder with his other hand, locking us in an awkward sort of waltz. “You were fine. You were perfect. I should have?—”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” The words are pulled from me, except I don’t know who did the pulling.

He falters, his response fizzling out like a sparkler on the Victoria Day long weekend. “I… You? Honestly, me neither.”

“No one has ever kissed me like that before.”

I close the space between us and press my mouth to his. In comparison, this kiss is flat, almost clinical. An experiment to see whether the last time was as incredible as I remember. Or maybe it’s a restraint, because if we kiss this way, it won’t get out of control, like the last one had the potential for.

“Kissed you like how?” he whispers against my flesh, his warm breath sending a bolt of need down my spine.

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