Page 23 of On Thin Ice

“You’re…barely legal.”

Now I felt a bit of a sting. “I’m an adult. Fully legal. I’m old enough to make my own decisions—and to know what I want,” I spat, hoping my vehemence convinced him more than it convinced myself. He continued to frown, so I asked, “How old are you?” I’d guessed late twenties or early thirties, but his hesitance made me wonder.

“I’m thirty.”

It was my turn to let out a breath, but this one felt like relief. “You’re not that much older.”

“I’m—”

“Not old enough to be my dad, not under any circumstances. So it’s fine. I don’t understand why it wouldn’t be.”

He was quiet for a bit before he spoke again. “Regardless, it’s done.”

Although he held me again, something seemed to have shifted, and my mind took it all in. Even though it still hurt between my legs, I was glad I’d done this, happy I’d given myself to Sinclair.

But my heart felt like it was being squeezed—because the feeling didn’t seem to be mutual, not now. He’d promised me earlier that he could make me feel like a queen whenever I wanted, except in this moment it seemed as if he were withdrawing that offer.

Then I thought about my dad…not just what he’d think if he knew I was sleeping with the enemy, but how he’d react if he knew I’d given this man my flower, my innocence.

And part of me was now a woman.

But then Sinclair asked, “How do you feel?”

Was he asking about my body…or my heart? “What do you mean?”

“Are you sore? Does it still hurt?”

I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want him to feel guilty about what had happened between us. It was something I’d wanted—and I would have had to go through it at some point. I was grateful it was someone I chose…grateful that it was Sinclair. “A little. But I’m sure I’ll feel better by morning.”

He kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry that hurt you.”

“It’s fine.”

“I just wonder if you’d been with someone your age—”

“Stop that. It would have hurt, no matter the age of my…lover.” That word sounded so weird coming out of my mouth, and I wondered if it was even what I’d wanted to say. His eyes were hiding so much, and it pained me that he was hung up on such a minor detail. After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t known there was some distance between our ages before we’d done this. So I decided to take a different tack. “What was your first time like?”

At that, he chuckled. “Mortifying—but only because of the circumstances. I was in high school, home for the summer, and my dad had me taking tennis lessons. I’d never been much good at it. I didn’t hate it but thought I was better at golf. Anyway…the instructor was probably in her early twenties.” He went quiet for a minute and I looked up, scanning his eyes. They were far away, as if trying to remember all the details. “The week before I had to return to school, we wound up having sex in her car. She didn’t know it was my first time until after…and let’s just say I didn’t perform up to expectations.”

“Did it hurt you at all?”

“Just psychologically. But I got over it.”

Had he? I’d found that humiliation and shame were like an albatross, hanging on you wherever you went.

In Winchester. Not here. Even though many of my behaviors from dealing with those emotions were ingrained…I didn’t feel shame here, not like back at home. Here, I was almost a different person. I’d become angry, defiant—and passionate in every sense of the word. And, even though I was almost like a prisoner, somehow I was also free.

But I wasn’t going to say any of that.

“And I’ll get over this.” I began tracing a pattern on his chest again, a figure-eight just above his pecs. “Can I ask you something?”

Removing his hand from my back, he brushed my hair away from my face. “Of course.” With a grin, he added, “That doesn’t mean I’ll answer it.”

I returned my eyes to my finger, feeling shy and silly. “I don’t want to call you Mr. W. anymore.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

I smiled, shaking my head. “And I’ve grown to like the name Sinclair, but it seems so…formal.”

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