Page 51 of On the Edge

Atlas opens it and I lose several beats of my heart. He’swearing a loose pair of black sweatpants and a shirt that saysGlazed and Confusedwith a picture of a pottery wheel. His feet are bare and his hair is a little spikier than I’ve seen it. He smells like cinnamon.

“You are very handsome,” I tell him, unable to control my tongue. His eyes widen a little bit. I love how dark his eyelashes are, and how he always looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. If he ever does wear eyeliner, I will probably die.

“So are you when you aren’t wearing a polo shirt,” he replies, lips twitching like he wants to smile. I beam. I knew he’d notice.

He steps back to let me inside, watching as I deposit my shopping bags carefully on the floor and shrug out of my jacket. He takes it from me and throws it over an overflowing coatrack in the foyer. That done, we stand there, awkwardly staring at one another. Three days without contact suddenly seems like an insurmountable distance.

“Fuck it,” Atlas murmurs, and puts a hand against my cheek before leaning up and kissing me.

He has impossibly soft lips. I noticed the first time he kissed me, and I’ve noticed every time since. They are probably the only soft thing about him. Sighing, I lean into him and let myself fall into the sensation. Carefully, I put my hand high on his hip, spreading my fingers wide and enjoying the heat of his body through the thin shirt.

“You’re a good student,” he murmurs, pulling back only far enough to whisper against my lips.

“Thank you,” I mutter back. “I have a good teacher.”

His laugh is little more than a huff of air against my mouth, but I can feel it all the way to my toes. Still with one hand on his hip, I mimic the way he’s touching my cheek andput my other hand against his face. Gently, I pull him back in and kiss him.

When he steps closer to me and his stomach brushes mine, I feel the first spiky tendrils of heat in my pelvis. Surprised, I groan, and feel Atlas’ fingers curl more firmly around the back of my neck. Of all the times we’ve made out in my dorm room, not once have I gotten an erection. Evidently, today is the day that changes.

“Atlas.” I lean my head back just far enough to see his face. “I apologize, but I am getting hard.”

He laughs. The sort of full-belly laugh I’m accustomed to hearing from Luke, and have never heard from Atlas. Leaning his forehead against my shoulder, he drops his hand away from my face.

“Only you,” he mutters, before straightening up and stepping back. “Do you want to keep going and see where that leads?” He gestures to my crotch and I have to fight the urge to cover myself with a hand. “Or were you planning something else?”

He looks pointedly at the groceries.

“Oh, yes. I am going to make you stollen, if you are agreeable?”

“Sure, Henri. Whatever the fuck that is.” He snatches up a couple of the bags and walks away. Grabbing the rest, I follow him. He leads me to the kitchen and drops the bags on the counter in a way that makes me flinch. Luckily, there is nothing breakable in the pair that he was carrying. Hopping up on the island, he kicks his feet and watches as I put the rest down with infinitely more care.

“I was not sure what you had in mind when you texted, but if you are hungry, I thought perhaps I could make you stollen. It is a German dish. I think you may like it.”

“I didn’t have anything in mind,” he says, shrugging. “Just thought we could hang out. Maybe watch a Christmas movie, and I could blow you if you wanted.”

“You watch Christmas movies?” I ask, because this is easily the strangest thing about what he’s just said.

“Sometimes. I likeThe Grinchwith Jim Carrey.” He eyes me. “Want to make this stollen shit, watch the movie, and then get back to the blowjob? Or maybe I could eat your ass.”

“Sometimes I think you are only saying things to make me embarrassed,” I tell him, pulling ingredients from the bags and lining them up on the counter next to where he is sitting.

“Nope, not this time. I’ve never eaten anyone out before—well, not a dude, anyway—but I have a feeling you’ve got the cleanest butt around, so.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. I don’t argue, because, yes, I do make sure I shower thoroughly.

“I am not sure, Atlas. I don’t know what I want to do,” I tell him honestly. I’ve never had fantasies about anyone giving me pleasure like that. Never had fantasies about sex at all, before meeting Atlas. Now, all of my ideas usually center around how I would go about making Atlas feel good. There have been a few nights recently where I wondered what it would be like to givehima blowjob.

“Okay. No worries,” he says. I smile at him. He’s prickly and argumentative almost all the time, but he never pushes me to do things. For weeks all we’ve done is kiss, and not once has he tried to hurry me along or made me feel badly about moving slow. About not feeling aroused or wanting to have sex.

It takes me a bit to find everything I need in the kitchen. Nothing seems to be kept where it should be, nor do theyhave the full array of utensils, but I make do. All the while I am puttering around, Atlas doesn’t move from his perch on the counter. Every now and then he’ll inquire about what I’m looking for and attempt to point me in the right direction, but mostly he sits in silence and watches. I take care to do as many things right next to him as I can, touching his leg and feeling his toes brush against me.

“Okay, we must let this rise for three quarters of an hour and then it shall go in the oven,” I tell Atlas. He nods, hopping down from the counter and skirting around the edge of the island.

“Movie time,” he says.

I follow him into the living room, which is a lot cleaner than I would have expected from a house of college students. He pats the back of the couch and I take the hint, sitting in that seat and watching as he gets the movie queued up. Instead of sitting down with space between us, as I expected him to, he flops down so close to me, he’s practically in my lap. Automatically, I put an arm out to steady him and he moves in even closer.

“Do you want me to put German subtitles on?” he asks. I stare at him, shocked by the offer. Misreading my silence, he gestures to the TV and continues. “I just mean, maybe you prefer German to English and it would be nice to watch the movie that way. I know you can understand the movie in English, I wasn’t?—”

“I know what you meant,” I say quietly, pressure sitting heavy in my chest at the offer. It’s a strange thing to explain to people, how much one misses speaking their native language when they are in a different country—a different flavor of homesickness that is often more potent for me, as I struggle with English. Not a day goes by, when I am here, that I do notwish for more opportunities to talk to someone in German. “Yes, please, thank you, Atlas. That is thoughtful of you to offer.”

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