Asher's eyes darken. "How far do you want to take this?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implication. I consider it, surprising myself with how easily the answer comes. "All the way," I say, the words feeling right as they leave my mouth. "I want everything."
Asher's expression shifts, surprise giving way to hunger. "Are you sure? We can take it slow."
"I'm sure," I say, rising to my feet. My knees protest the movement, stiff from kneeling on the carpet. "I want to know what it feels like. All of it."
Asher studies me for a moment, as if gauging my sincerity, then nods. "Okay," he says, moving toward the bed. "But we do this right."
He reaches into his bedside drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube and a condom. The sight makes the reality of what we're about to do crash over me. This is happening.
I'm about to have sex with a man.
The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends a thrill of anticipation down my spine.
Asher sits on the edge of the bed, fully naked now. "You're a bit overdressed," he points out, nodding at my fully clothed state.
I look down at myself, suddenly aware that I'm still wearing everything—jeans, t-shirt, even my shoes. "Right," I say, bending to untie my sneakers. My fingers feel clumsy, uncooperative.
"Let me help," Asher offers, sliding off the bed to kneel in front of me. The role reversal is back, but this time with a different purpose.
He helps me out of my shoes and socks, then rises to his feet, hands moving to the hem of my shirt. "Arms up," he instructs, and I comply, allowing him to pull the shirt over my head.
The cool air of the room raises goosebumps on my skin, or maybe it's the way Asher looks at me, gaze appreciative as it travels over my chest. "You work out," he observes, his fingers tracing the definition of my pectoral muscles.
"Swimming," I explain, my voice slightly hoarse. "Three times a week."
"It shows," he mutters, his hands moving down to my waist. "These next?"
I nod, my mouth too dry for words. Asher's fingers make quick work of my belt and the button of my jeans, but he pauses at the zipper, looking up at me as if asking for final permission.
"Yes," I say, answering the unspoken question.
Asher lowers the zipper slowly. Then he hooks his fingers into the waistband of both my jeans and boxers, pulling them down in one smooth motion.
I step out of them, now as naked as Asher. I resist the urge to cover myself, though I feel exposed in a way that goes beyond physical nudity. This is me, stripped of pretenses, of the identity I've hidden behind for years.
"You're beautiful," Asher says, his voice soft but sincere.
The compliment catches me off guard. I've been called handsome before, attractive, even hot. But beautiful? That's new. And coming from Asher, it feels significant somehow.
"So are you," I reply, surprising myself with the honesty of the statement. But it's true—Asher is beautiful, in a way I never allowed myself to acknowledge before. The lean lines of his body, the contrast of his dark hair against his skin, the expressive quality of his eyes.
He smiles, the expression lighting up his face. "Come here," he says, taking my hand and leading me to the bed. "I want to show you something."
We sit side by side on the edge of the mattress, our thighs touching. Asher turns to face me, his expression serious.
"For your first time, it might be easier if I bottom," he says. "Less pressure on you."
The terminology is new to me, but the meaning is clear enough. "You'd do that?"
"Yeah," Asher says simply. "I want you to enjoy this. And I enjoy both, so it's no hardship."
The casual admission—that Asher has experience both giving and receiving—shouldn't surprise me, but it does. It's another reminder of how new all of this is to me, how much I have to learn.
"Okay," I agree, grateful for Asher's guidance. "What do we do?"
"First," Asher says, reaching for the lube, "I need to get ready for you. It takes preparation."
