Come As You Are by Theresa Weir

that worked out.” He unsnapped and unzipped my pants, and we both shucked them off and stepped away. Boxers. He was wearing boxers.
    I tugged off my T-shirt and he did the same. It was so bright in the room. Too bright. I suddenly felt self-conscious. I’d never done this in the daylight. Only at night. And usually drunk. I felt a sense of panic and I turned to the bed, pulled down the covers, and dove under a sheet.
    He laughed. “You might not remember, but I’ve seen you,” he said.
    “This is all so strange,” I said breathlessly, holding the sheet to my chin, staring at his face, his beautiful face.
    “We can go back to painting.”
    “Would you call me a tease?” I teased.
    “I’d call you…coy.”
    “Coy? That’s awfully old-fashioned.”
    “Then exasperating. Sweet.” He was thinking.
    “Quirky?”
    “Sad. Funny. Secretive. But not a tease. Not quirky.” He held out his arms. “So what’s it going to be?”
    “You aren’t going to woo me?”
    He smiled. “No.”
    “You aren’t going to beg?”
    “No.”
    As he stood there, I found myself wanting to know all about him. I wanted to see the places he’d lived, and I wanted to experience his life at Berkeley. Had he been poor? Rich? Had he worked his way through college? He was smart. He’d probably gotten a full ride, but even with a full ride you had living expenses. Did he have a stereo? Did he have a record collection? What bands had he seen? Had he been to Coachella? Did he play an instrument? If so, what? Guitar? Piano? He seemed more like a piano guy. Did he draw? Did he write? Did he like good movies, or shitty movies? Had he ever had a pet? Did he like dogs? Or cats? Did he ever cry? Would he cry when this was over?
    Stop. Don’t think about that. Why are you thinking about that? You don’t want to know any of that. You don’t need to know any of that.
    I tossed away the sheet and I got out of bed and went to him, pulling down his shorts until they dropped around his ankles. And there it was, every bit as big and as beautiful as I remembered. I would never think of painting in the same way again.
    I cradled him and stroked him, then I pushed him back. He took a couple of stumbling steps out of his shorts to fall into a wooden chair. He didn’t reach for me. Instead, he held the sides of the chair like he was hanging on for dear life.
    “Close your eyes,” I said.
    With his face turned toward me like someone welcoming a cool rain, he closed his eyes. And waited. I could see the pulse beating in his neck, and I could see a flush across his cheeks. His chest rose and fell, his breathing carrying a sense of expectation.
    He was going to make me do all of this.
    I slipped off my bikini panties, then unhooked my bra and dropped it to the floor before placing my hands on his knees, bending over, and kissing the soft velvet tip of his penis. He pulled in a deep, shuddering breath but didn’t open his eyes. And didn’t reach for me.
    I straightened and straddled his thighs. And because I knew he wasn’t yet completely in the game, and I knew he could change his mind at any second, I guided him to me and slowly lowered myself until he stretched and filled me.
    No foreplay, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I had to claim him. For now. Just for now.
    He was breathing harder.
    I placed my hands on his shoulders and began to work my hips. I caught a flash of movement and saw us both framed in the oval mirror attached to the dresser. I must have made a surprised sound, because his eyes flew open. In the reflection I saw his head turn until we were both looking at the image of us. Erotic, but also strangely innocent and beautiful.
    “You carried that mirror in here,” I whispered.
    “I never thought I’d see us in it.” His voice was tight and breathless. “Not like this.” He let go of the chair and his hands moved up my thighs and my arms, caressing my breasts, lifting my hair back, spreading it over my shoulder so it hid