Page 72 of Canadian Boyfriend

I started again, I couldn’t help it. It was bubbling out of me. He joined me this time and, in a repeat of that day out on the dock, fell slowly back on the bed, taking me with him. “You have thebestlaugh,” he said.

Then we were kissing again, but our entire bodies were involved. He was wearing his usual sweatpants, and I was wearing leggings, so I could feel his erection. It made me bold. I ground myself against him, and he responded by tweaking my nipples, which made me stop laughing and gasp as sensation shot through me.

“Sensitive?” he asked, tweaking a little harder, and all I could do was nod frantically. He grabbed my hips and scooched meup his body, which on the one hand I objected to because it broke the contact between our hips, but on the other…

“Oh my God,” I gasped as he fastened his mouth on one nipple. He hummed his approval as he worked it over, and yes, I had always been sensitive there. There was an invisible cord between that stiff little peak and the growing heat between my legs.

It was all happening too fast. I didn’t want it to be over yet. I had a split second where I thought,How can I communicate to him that I don’t want this to be over yet?but then I opened my mouth and said, “I don’t want this to be over yet, and I’m getting too close. So you should take your clothes off.”

The laughter burbled up again—both over how easy that had been and at how quickly he responded to my suggestion, flipping me onto my back and shucking his shirt, followed by his sweats and underwear. When he was done, he crawled on top of me, but he stayed on his hands and knees—one hand on each side of my torso and one knee on each side of my hips—and contemplated me.

I contemplated him, too: Mike Martin, naked. He was all athletic and muscly, which was not a surprise. But he had a big tattoo of a bird of prey of some sort on his chest. He was so earnest and clean-cut outwardly that the inkwasa surprise.

“How far exactly are we moving beyond kissing?” he asked.

“I’m not on birth control. Do you have any condoms?”

“I… don’t.” If I’d thought for a second that something dark had passed over his eyes, I must have been mistaken, because they started sparking again as he said, “So I guess we’re not movingthatfar beyond kissing.”

“There are a lot of other things we can do,” I said.

“You got that right.” He heaved himself onto the bed so hewas lying on his side next to me and reached a hand down my leggings.

It took very little time. He had the other end of that imaginary string now, and I was helpless to resist. The tension ratcheted up as he rubbed, circling my clit but not quite touching it. I had the vague sense that I should be paying some attention to him, but when I reached for him, he used his free hand to bat me away. “You first,” he said in a growly whisper. “I want to watch.”

Oh God. I lurched toward the cliff, shamelessly humping his hand, and it only took a minute or two until I fell. I watched him the whole time, and he watched me. It was intense, but also… fond. We smiled at each other, and this time when I reached for him, he only groaned. He was hard and hot and smooth in my hand. I hadn’t done this for so long. Well, maybe I had never done this. I had never stared into a man’s eyes while I gave him a hand job. I had never let a man stare into mine while he gave me one. Both things were easy, the staring and the orgasms. His arrived as rapidly as mine had, and with a self-deprecating snort—I assumed over how quickly he’d come, but I didn’t mind at all—he flopped onto his back. I rolled over to face him. “That was—”

Oh shit.

“Are you OK?” I whispered, even as I realized what a dumb question that was. He was clearlynotOK. He was crying. Even though he had his head turned away from me, I could tell.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling his head back and swiping at a few tears. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“I’msorry,” I breathed, crashing back into reality. “This was a mistake. We got carried away. It won’t happen again.” I should have listened to that niggle I’d had before we started.I’d been so focused on whether this was the right thing forme. Maybe that niggle had actually been an intuition about this being a bad idea forhim.

He rolled to face me and flashed a smile that was almost a smirk. “Oh, it will happen again. Preferably with a condom. Which I intend to go out and get ASAP.”

My face must have telegraphed the confusion I felt. He grabbed my hand and laced his fingers through mine. With his other hand he gestured at his now-tear-free face. “That was… some kind of reflex. I should probably be embarrassed, but I’m pretty sure you’re not the kind of person who cares about shit like that.”

I didn’t know how to say that I didn’t care that he had cried, but I did care aboutwhyhe had cried.

“I would really, really like to do this again,” he said, grinning. But then the grin faded. “If you do,” he added.

Did I? I mean, yes, I did. But there was still the mystery niggle. “I do want to do this again, but I think we should talk about this”—I copied the gesture he had used earlier—“reflex.”

He sighed and looked past me, staring off into space over my shoulder. I waited. He transferred his attention back to me, his eyes boring into mine. “I realize it’s extremely shitty to talk about her when I’m in bed with you.”

“No, it isn’t. She was your wife.” I’d assumed his reaction had something to do with Sarah. I was pretty sure this was the first time he’d had sex since she died. I didn’t know what Mike Martin got up to on the road, but I had a hard time seeing him entertaining puck bunnies. “Are you feeling guilty?” I asked, as gently as I could. I hated that I’d experienced our coming together as so amazing, and he was feeling guilty.

“No, it’s more that I never imagined myself having sex withanyone else. Marriage vows, you know…” He rolled his eyes, making fun of himself, but of course Mike Martin was the type to take marriage vows seriously. “One of the things I’ve learned about grief is that there are these milestones you’re supposed to care about, like birthdays and holidays. I find myself passing them without fanfare. But then there are milestones youdon’tknow are going to be a thing until they rise up and slap you in the face.”

I laid my palm gently on his newly smooth cheek. I didn’t know if that kind of thing was allowed. Was it too tender a gesture? It must have been OK, because he quickly put his on top of mine to keep it there. “There’s also—”

“What?”

“There’s also some other junk going on in my mind that I don’t really want to talk about, if you don’t mind. I promise it has nothing to do with you.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” I mean, I desperately wanted to know what this “junk” was, but I was in no position to push.

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