Page 90 of Tilly in Technicolor
I look at the foil for a moment, my eyes growing even wider, then my gaze shoots to Tilly.
“You want to have sex with me?”
Tilly’s face bursts into red splotches and she lets out a snort of laughter. “Yes,” she says, looking at me. “I do. I’ve… uh… never done it before so—”
“I haven’t, either,” I rush out.
“So are you… what are your thoughts on the matter?” she asks, dragging her foot in the sand.
I tilt my head back, looking up at the cerulean sky, then swallow, brilliant yellow happiness swirling through my system. “I think there’s no one in the world I’d rather share this moment with. I think… well, I think my heart’s yours and my body is, too, whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” Tilly whispers.
“Can… Can I touch you?” I ask.
“God yes thank you please,” Tilly fumbles out, loud and fast.
There’s a beat of silence as I pause my reaching hand.
Then we both burst into laughter.
“Someone’s rather keen,” I say, a laugh still in my voice as my hand rests at her side, fingers splayed across her ribs, drawing her closer to me.
“You have no idea,” Tilly says back, nose scrunching up as she tilts her head and smiles at me.
That smile makes it feel like sunshine is rushing through my veins, while small flashes of lightning crack through my chest and fizzle down to my fingertips.
“Can I touch you, too?” she asks.
I nod so fast my head is a blur. “Yes.”
And she does. Greedy hands reach for my hair. My jaw. My shoulders. My chest. I touch her back, mirroring her movements until my palm rests right above the steady thump of her heart like hers does to mine. She presses closer again, and I want her pulse to embed itself in my skin.
I bend down until the tip of my nose touches hers, rubbing them together twice, and smiling.
Tilly smiles back, then kisses me, pressing up to her tiptoes and throwing her arms around my neck.
My hands start to wander again, moving slowly and lightly down Tilly’s sides, across her back. A featherlight touch against her hips.
And Tilly—master of keeping me on my toes that she is—lets out a mildly terrifying combination of a squeal and a honk and yells, “Stop!”
I jump back and Tilly sways forward, thrown off-balance.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, staring at her with wide eyes.
She rakes her hands through her hair like she wants to pull it out. “Nothing! Nothing,” she says, trying to press herself against me again.
I grip her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length, while giving her a look that hopefully conveys that I won’t be doing a single thing more until she talks to me.
She drags her teeth back and forth over her lower lip, staring at my throat.
“It’s not you,” she says at last, head drooping. “I don’t exactly know how to explain it, but it’s definitely not you.”
“Okay,” I say, using my fingers to gently lift her chin. “But would you be willing to try and find words for it? So I can learn?”
Tilly closes her eyes, then smiles softly, taking a step toward me and leaning her head on my chest.
“Soft touch can make my skin feel…” She does a full-body squirm. “It doesn’t feel good,” she says at last. “I love firm touch. Hard hugs. Stuff like that always feels great. But soft touches or tickles make my skin crawl and, again, it’s not a you thing, it’s a me thing, but the sensation is really overwhelming and then I get this weird jolt thing and—”
