Come As You Are by Theresa Weir Page A

nothing.
    I’d never brought a boy into this house. Not like this. Not for sex. I never thought it would ever happen. I’d never wanted it to happen.
    It was my turn to close my eyes as I pressed myself into him, wrapping my arms around him, feeling his young, firm skin, smelling his young sweet scent.
    He finally, finally took control. With his hands on my hips he lifted me from him and followed me to the bed as I walked backward and he walked forward. Pressing me into the mattress, the weight of him on top of me, he kissed me. And I realized it might have been our first kiss, because I had no memory of another.
    “You taste like flowers,” he said in a hushed voice.
    “It’s lavender.”
    His lips were soft and they moved slowly over mine, nipping and gently sucking. Time ticked away as he explored my body, and when I thought I might scream and beg him to come inside me, he did just that, moving with sure and deep strokes.
    The city faded and the neighborhood faded and house faded and the rooms faded until it was just us.

Chapter 15
    This is the part of the relationship I love. Some people call it the honeymoon phase, but it’s the only phase for me. The wonderful before the end. I get that I shouldn’t think that going in, but it helps for me to know it’s temporary. It helps for me to know it will never get too personal. It will just be magic and when the magic stops the relationship ends.
    I never tell guys that because what’s the point? It would only hurt them, and it would only lead to confusion about something that’s very clear to me. I can’t have a guy in my life. Not a guy who never leaves. I think part of it is because of who I am when we’re in the magic. I can be everything he thinks I am, because for a while I believe it too. I need to believe it too. But that state of mind can only last so long.
    Sometimes I think I should see a shrink, because I do have a lot of crap to deal with. But then, at other times, I think, I’m the one who gets this. I’m the one being realistic.
    I guess some would consider me a downer, but I like to prepare myself. I like to know where I’m going. And other people just want to be oblivious to it all. And those people—when the world crashes down around them—those people can’t handle it. They break and they freak and they quit school and they quit work and they start doing drugs and drinking and never get out of bed.
    I can handle it. Every time I break up with a guy the next day is fine. I’m fine. I go to work and I hang out with friends and I don’t need breakup sex. The day is the same as any other day. Because I’m always prepared. I always know the end will come.
    Over the next two weeks, Ian and I kept going on the house, but we didn’t get as much done because we spent so many hours allowing ourselves to be distracted. We had sex all of the time, in almost every room. I hate to admit it, but we even did it in the kitchen, utilizing the counter and finishing up on a chair. We had sex in the shower as we scrubbed the paint from our bodies, paint we’d gotten everywhere while rolling around laughing on the floor. Occasionally a knock would sound on the door, and we’d both stop moving, Ian buried deep inside me. And we would look into each other’s eyes, and we would listen while the footsteps walked away, and then we would laugh and keep going.
    He really did have the most beautiful body. Not all muscular, but lean and firm, his skin soft and velvety, and a penis that was actually lovely to look at. Because really, aren’t a lot of them just plain gross? But Ian’s had this lovely color, pale and smooth and not that veiny even when fully erect. I loved to kiss it and lick it and curl my tongue around the tip until he moaned and ground himself against my mouth. I wanted to take a photo of it and frame it and hang it on the wall. A few times I actually thought about that. About taking a picture when he was sleeping.
    I’d pull down the sheet and