Page 22 of Kiss Me, Maybe

I lean forward on the couch, turning to give her a better view of my injured shoulder. Gently, her fingers curl beneath my sleeve to carefully extract the fabric from the wound. I wince all over again, this pain somehow worse than the rubbing alcohol.

“It’s too low.” Her breath warms my skin, the crook of my neck. I shiver from the proximity, at the way the feeling warms my entire body. I haven’t felt anything like this before. No, that’s a lie. I’m only used to it under the cover of night, as I run through an assortment of fantasies in my mind that I’ve collected and sorted from various places.

Being asexual doesn’t mean I’m repulsed or even averse to the idea of sex. Au contraire. Sex, at least in the abstract, has always been something that interests me, which is part of what made figuring out my identity even harder. It’s just that when I fantasize about sex, I never imaginemyselfin that way. The bodies I imagine are usually nameless and faceless. Once, after a weekend binge session ofOne Tree Hill, Sophia Bush made a cameo.

As far as micro labels go, aegosexual has been the best fit for me. For aces with a regular to high sex drive, we’re often aroused by sex acts in porn or smut or even just a particular sexual fantasy that looks good in our heads, with little to no desire to actually engage in sex ourselves. It was the first label to explain my relationship to sex, but I hesitate to call it a perfect fit (Hello, Sophia Bush, what are you doing here?). But if there’s anything I’ve learned about labels, it’s that there’s always room for fluidity and change when something no longer fits like it once did.

Only now, with Krystal’s warm breath on my skin igniting parts of me only porn, smutty romance books, and Sophia Bush have previously been able to, I’ve never felt more… fluid.

Even more when she says, “You’re gonna have to take this off.”

My heart is pounding in my chest, the sound so loud that it takes a second for the request to register that there’s nothing sexual in nature about it. Even still, that doesn’t stop a flare of heat from warming my cheeks. I want to fan myself, or at the very least wipe away the sweat beading my forehead, but I don’t want to call more attention to the irregular temperature my body has taken.

“Is that really necessary?”

“I’m not going to be able to clean it otherwise.” Her eyes skate over me carefully. “You could get an infection.”

Without thinking too hard about what I’m doing, I pull the hem of my shirt up in one fast motion, only stopping when the part stuck to my shoulder refuses to budge. My vision goes dark as white-hot pain overcomes me, and I let out a loud screech as the fabric begins to slowly and painstakingly unstick from my skin.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Her voice is soothing as her arms circle me, cool fingers carefully extracting the remaining fabric stuck to the wound. “This is gonna hurt. Take in a deep breath for me, Angel.”

I do as she says, breathing into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent the way I’ve wanted to all day and I can’t even enjoy it. She tugs the fabric up with a gentle but firm hand, doing everything in her power to lessen my pain. I grit my teeth until the shirt is peeled from my skin completely, and the only layer covering my torso is a black lace bralette.

I’ve always been self-conscious of my small breasts, but from the way Krystal’s cheeks glow and her eyes look down for a beat longer than necessary, I take it I have nothing to worry about in that department. My stomach does somersaults as her stare lingers. I still can’t get my breathing under control, and I can’t tell if it’s the toll my shallow injuries have taken on me, nerves, or something else entirely.

“Krystal Ramirez, you’re no better than my comment section on a good day.”

Her eyes snap to mine, face as red as mine is probably.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean to stare. I just—”

“Yeah, I know what you werejust.” My smirk is devilish, andlorddoes it feel good to be the one throwing her off balance for a change. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of me, not ogling me?”

“God, you’re right,” she says, tone miserable. “Taking you back here was a mistake. You’re still breathing hard. I should’ve taken you to the emergency room.”

“Krystal, I’mfine.” I grab her arm as she starts to stand. “I was just teasing. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I don’t need the emergency room, and I need the bill even less.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“I can’t let you do that.” I shake my head. “As long as I don’t need stitches, it’s completely unnecessary. At least check out my shoulder first.”

“I can do that. Turn around.” I do as she says, letting her get a better view of the back of my shoulder. “I have to, um…” Her throat bobs on a swallow. “I have to pull down your brastrap to get to the scrape.” I nod as two fingers hook beneath the strap. I bite down on a moan, but not because of any pain. Luckily, the material doesn’t seem to be sticking to the wound.

But a new sort of pain is taking its place, more confusing and arousing than it has a right to be under these circumstances. I feel it low in my belly as her hands clean the wound on the back of my shoulder. Something must be terribly wrong with my nervous system, because I hardly feel the sting from the alcohol this time. Instead, I’m focused on the way her hands are moving against my bare skin. The light pressure of her left hand just below the back of my neck, keeping me still. The gentle, yet efficient movements of her other hand as she cleans and bandages the wound.

“You scared me today.” There’s a tenuous quality to her voice. I try to look at her over my shoulder to gauge her expression, but all I can see is the tip of her nose through a curtain of dark hair over her face. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d gotten hurt worse than this.”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “I was struggling on that bike long before your flannel got stuck in the wheel. So stop blaming yourself, okay?”

She doesn’t respond as she finishes.

“Here, let me grab you another shirt,” she says, heading down the hallway after inspecting my bloodied shirt. When she returns, she hands me a worn gray T-shirt. “Sorry if it swamps you.”

I wave off her apology, not caring if the shirt hangs off me. It’s expected for two women with two very different body types. I’m prepubescent, teenage boy skinny. She’s mid-sizedand curvy in all the best places. Silently, I vow not to ruin this particular article of clothing as she helps me into the T-shirt on my injured side. I try not to shiver at her touch. I don’t succeed.

“How’s the pain?” she asks once I’m sufficiently dressed. “I have some ibuprofen if you need it.”

“I’ll manage. You’ve done too much for me already.” I stand up from the couch, carefully stretching out my stiff muscles. “Thanks for taking care of me. This goes far beyond your duties as my favorite bartender, I’m sure.”

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