Page 337 of The First Time
He slides out of his jeans. My gaze is drawn to his muscular thighs. His narrow hips. The cotton boxers…
I hate those cotton boxers.
I want to draw him from every possible angle. I want to capture every nuance of his body with my pencil.
"You look warm," he says.
"I'm fine."
He moves towards me. Unbuttons my coat and slides it off my shoulders.
I shiver but not from the cold. It's from the proximity. From his touch.
I pull my sweater over my head, then I reach for his boxers.
Blake shakes his head. He drops to his knees and unzips my boots. I step out of them, one at a time.
He lifts my foot to peel off my sock then does the same with my other leg.
His fingertips trail over the seam of my jeans, up my leg, over my sex, down my other leg.
Then back up again. He's careful about undoing my button and zipper.
He pushes my jeans—and my panties—to my ankles.
I step out of them. It's not nearly as graceful as his striptease. But it's effective.
I'm standing here in my bra.
He's in his boxers.
We've been naked together plenty, but this feel more intimate. More revealing.
Like we're finally showing each other our hearts.
He rises slowly.
He's inches away. Close enough we could kiss. Touch. Make love.
Silly me, it's not making love with Blake. It's fucking. He fucks. He doesn't love.
I send the word through a shredder and stuff it some place where it can't get to me.
Love isn't a part of this equation.
I'm going to come to terms with that.
Somehow.
I step back, undo my bra, and let it drop to the ground. I turn away, but I can feel Blake's gaze.
It sends heat racing through my body.
I move towards the pool and dip a toe. The water is warm. Inviting.
Blake slides out of his boxers. I can't stop myself from gawking. He really is perfect. He belongs in a museum. He should be an entire wing of the Met. He should replace David at Galleria dell'Accademia in Florence.
"Are you waiting for something?" he asks.
