Page 54 of Colt
I come out into the living room, and she’s also dressed. Her hair is still wet, and she’s sitting there on the couch cross-legged, looking small and vulnerable, and making me feel just awful.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m good,” she says. She looks up at me, her expression dreamy. “I’m literally just zoning out because I’m having an orgasm high.”
My ego jumps up inside me and requests a high five. I don’t honor that. But it feels good. It really does feel good. And I feel like maybe I’m not entirely broken.
So. That’s exactly what she wanted. For me to feel better about myself. She wanted to know that sex can be great. I provided it.
“Did I exceed expectations?”
“Yes,” she says. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “That was amazing.”
Silence stretches between us. We never had the closest relationship. I don’t always know what to say to her. We’re better when we’re sniping at each other than when we’re trying to make serious conversation. Whenever we try, it usually ends badly. Sincerity would be great right now. It would be the right thing. But I don’t especially know how to wield it.
“I’m probably going to move,” she says.
“What?”
“When my rotations start? I think I am going to move. I think I’ll even look for an apartment. Something small, something I don’t have to really keep up. Because I’m going to have so much work to do.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure where this is going.
“It’ll be about a week into the new term. After the break. I have a feeling you’ll be in a way better position and…”
“Are you… About to suggest that we keep doing this until you leave?”
She looks away from me, and not slowly. “Yes. I am about to suggest that. Because I think… I don’t think it’s reasonable to expect the two of us are going to be around each other and not want to do this. You’re stuck in the house…”
“Are you suggesting sex as a boredom buster?”
“Kind of,” she says. “But is it a bad suggestion?”
“No,” I say. I’m definitely not bored. I don’t feel hopeless. I don’t have images of my near-death dancing in my head, so I guess sex is the therapy that I’ve been waiting for all this time, even if I didn’t really know it.
“So you just want to keep doing this.”
“Yes. I do. Because we already did. And you can’t put the horse back in the barn once it’s bolted.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“We already have to keep it a secret.”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“So it just seems reasonable that we might keep going with it. Because we’ve already earned whatever the consequences are.”
I don’t even want to argue with that. That, I think, is probably sex logic. But I don’t really care. I also don’t really know what to do. I’ve never been in a relationship; that’s not what this is. But she’s somebody that I know better than the average bed partner, and I feel like I should sit with her. Touch her. But also, I’m not sure romance feels exactly like the right thing. Especially given the fact that we’ve both firmly established this is just physical, and things are going to go back to normal when we put an end to it. Actually, I think she’s smart. My healing, her moving, it’ll be an easy line to draw under it. And that’s the thing. We need clear lines, clear boundaries. An endpoint.
We have the endpoint.
“Do you want me to hold you?”
She lifts her head. “I… Yes.”
There. That’s what she wants. I maneuver myself down on the couch next to her, and I pull her into my arms. She takes a deep breath and rests her head on my chest. We sit for a moment like that. And I don’t question the contentedness coursing through my veins. It was good sex.
Great sex.
