“I don’t want you to go,” I said.
And then I wrapped my arms behind his neck, pulled him closer, stood up on my tiptoes, and kissed him.
I never even made a choice—or maybe I’d made the choice long before.
I kissed him there in the street, up against his truck, as long as either of us could stand it. I leaned in. I owned it. I pressed against him and tried to absorb that solidness of his chest. I caressed him and tasted him and just let myself fully melt into the moment. Then I pulled back, a little breathless, and said, “If I took you upstairs, could we keep doing what we’re doing?”
He gave me a wry smile. “I am very grateful to be doing what we’re doing.”
“But,” I added, wanting to be clear, “not go any further.”
“Just kiss, you mean?”
I nodded.
“You’re asking if I’m willing to go up to your room and kiss you?”
I nodded again. “For a good long while.”
He kissed me again. “I am definitely willing to do that.”
“I’m going to have to take things very slow, is what I mean.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Could we go upstairs and sleep together—actually sleep?”
He smiled bigger, all teasing. “Firefighter Hanwell, are you proposing that wesnuggle?”
I gave a barely-there smile of my own. “I guess that’s one way to describe it.”
“I’ll take anything. I’d sleep on a bed of nails to be next to you.”
I turned and started pulling him toward the house. “That’s actually perfect, because my bed is made of nails.”
“Sold,” he said. “I’m in.”
I led him through the garden, over the threshold, up the slanted stairs, and through my attic door. We kissed and stumbled the whole way.
It’s amazing how brave you can be when you feel safe. I walked him backwards to the foot of my bed, and I tugged on him to sit down. When he sat, I climbed on top of him, perching on his thighs, my arms around his neck, my face right there with his.
We just kept kissing. And the more we kissed, the more I relaxed into the moment, and the more I gave in to all the goodness of being close to him. It was like a tiny, wordless negotiation: Each time I took a step closer and he met me with tenderness, I took another step closer. The closer I got, the closer I wanted to be.
I pulled his shirt off and threw it on the floor, and then there he was, half-naked, all smooth skin and contours. Then I pulled my own shirt off, and there I was in my sports bra—exactly as I’d been with him somany times at the station, as he put EKG pads on me or checked my spine.
Of course, this was nothing like those other times.
When he ran his palms up, then back down, the skin of my back, he wasn’t checking my vertebrae. He wasn’t working to maintain professional distance. He was doing the opposite. He was trying to get as close as possible.
And so was I.
I ran my hands over him, just absorbing the warmth and the softness, and the landscape of his muscles and the miracle of getting to touch him at all.
Then I pushed him back until he was lying down.
I scooted forward and traced his six-pack with my fingers.
His breath came out like a shudder.
