Chapter 8: His Bed

I climbed the ridge at ten that night, and this time I wasn't carrying anything.

He opened the door in a gray t-shirt and sleep pants, and looked at me.

"You came."

"I said we'd see."

"And?"

"I saw."

He laughed and took my hand and led me up the stairs.

The bedroom ran the whole width of the top floor.

There was a bed with a plain pine frame and a dark quilt, a window full of black lake, and a single lamp.

I stopped in the doorway.

"I've never been up here," I said.

"I know. I've wanted you here since the day you wouldn't look at me."

He reached out and touched my face.

"I thought, there's someone who knows something I don't."

I swallowed.

"Take your clothes off, Lennart."

He took the shirt off over his head, and the pants after, and stood in the lamplight.

Every line of him was clean and hard.

I walked a slow circle around him with my fingertips on his skin.

I touched the scar, his shoulder blades, the long muscle of his back.

He shivered.

"You're staring," he said.

"I like it."

"Your turn."

I let him undress me.

He did it slowly, one layer at a time.

His mouth followed his hands.

He kissed my collarbone.

He kissed the inside of my elbow, and my ribs, and the soft dip of my stomach.

When I stood bare in front of him, he knelt and pressed his face to my belly and breathed me in.

"I want to go slow," he said, his voice muffled.

"Slow," I said. "Yes."

"I've been rough and fast with you. In a stockroom. In a truck."

"I liked it."

"I know. I want to do this right, too."

"Then do it."

He stood and lifted me, and laid me down in the middle of the bed.

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