A Risk Worth Taking

by Jessica Joyce

I see red—literally, because my hair is red and it’s in my eyes. But also figuratively, because nothing is going right tonight.

“I’m going to kill you,” I state, hands on my hips. “I wouldn’t,” a voice says behind me. “Recycling bin homicide carries a life sentence in Portland.”

The curved line of his thigh is indecent, the square cap of his knee damn near spiritual.

He doesn’t need to remember it at all. But god, some small part of me wished he did.

“But it’s not as natural for us to think about the risks associated with not changing. What are you missing out on if you don’t take the job or move across the country? What are you missing out on, Claireful, if you don’t get out of a relationship you know isn’t working for you?”

The cost of inaction would be not getting to see that look up close. It’s a cost I could afford, but dammit, I don’t want to.

“Slow and careful isn’t really what I want to be tonight.”

“I’m about to be intensely forward,” I warn him. Connor’s eyes light up. “The answer is yes.”

Taking his hand feels like the riskiest thing I’ve done in years and somehow also the safest.

“Without a doubt. My head is still spinning,” he says, gazing down at me. I’m not sure he’s talking about the Uber.

“What?” he asks, breathless, falling gracelessly onto his couch with me straddling him. I adjust my position, pressing my knees into the leather cushion at his back. “I don’t know, one-night stands are kind of fun.” His eyes crinkle with amusement as his hands shape my hips. “Are they?” “When they’re with you, yeah.” “This is my first one-night stand review, please say more,”

“Can never keep it to one night. Which, you know, is probably a testament to my skills.” I make a path to his ear, whispering, “Or maybe you’re just a little barnacle.” He squeezes my ass. “My hands definitely are.”

“This is going to be a one-night stand on a technicality, just so you know. If you weren’t leaving tomorrow, I’d keep you until you got sick of me.”

I don’t know what I like better—impish Connor or this one, whose eyes are blown with lust, pulse beating hard in his throat, his hands taking slow but thorough stock of the shape of me. I decide I like both. I’d probably like all versions of him if we had the time.

From somewhere far away, I think, I hope my flight doesn’t get delayed. But when Connor parts my shirt, kissing down my chest until his breath is hot against my nipple through the lace of my bra, I think, holy hell. Yes I do.

I’m so used to thinking of the word careful in how it relates to the way I view the world, historically—with caution, aware of every angle of risk. I never thought of it the way Connor means right now: to literally be full of care. To be thoughtful and attentive. Diligent.

There’s something about being in my bra and pants and having Connor completely bare. It feels like power he’s handed over.

“Yeah,” he says, “That’s what you like.”

He holds us there, gazing down at me with the tiniest spark of an emotion neither of us will ever get to name.

“You’ll let me keep you up all night?” “You’d fucking better.” “Wow, a threat has never made me so hard,”

It’s intensely good in a way that it’s never been before, because it’s full of care but it’s reckless, too. It’s a revelation that those two things can exist at the same time. That they can make it even better.

I want him to know the care can be unchecked. It can be wild and fast and messy. I want it and I know he does, too.

“Why’d it take you so long to get to me, Claire Ashford?” he murmurs, pushing a strand of damp hair off my cheek. My heart soars into my throat. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“How many hours do we have?” Connor murmurs, his voice heavy with the sleep that’s pulling at me, too. My eyes slide to the digital clock on his nightstand. It’s nearly two. “Ten. Eleven if I’m really feeling the YOLO holiday spirit.”

“Your flight’s canceled,” he murmurs, his eyes on my mouth. I lick my lips, smirking when his part. “It is.” “Sorry.” “Liar,” I say, squirming underneath him. He grins, pushing his hips into mine. “Caught me. Are you sorry?” “I probably should be, but no. I’m not.”

He straightens and catches me staring, smirking as he takes his seat next to me. I’m not even sorry; it truly is a top tier ass.

I did and so here we are, with our slightly crooked banner and confetti on the ground, which Connor will no doubt be vacuuming up for months to come. But I like that he’ll have a lingering, tangible memory of me. If I dropped extra handfuls behind his bookshelf, who could blame me?

Tomorrow is looming, but right now we’re here and that’s enough.

My hands are on him before my brain can catch up. I tweak his nipple and he yelps, his shoulder banging into the wall. “I said, you’re hot.” He cradles a hand over his pec, bemused. “That hurt and turned me on.” “Okay, put a pin in that.” I slide my hand in his, pulling him toward the living room. “We have a party to get to.”

“Kinda feels like we’ve been doing this for a long time, Claireful.” My heart skips a beat as I pull back. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his expression tender. “I know. It’s weird, right?” “It’s only weird that it’s not weird.” I squint. “I think even if I were sober that wouldn’t make sense.”

At 11:59, he cues up a YouTube video of a crowd counting down, then returns to me. I imagine this is how it would feel even if we were in a room full of other people—like we’re the only ones in it.

“I think this is probably the part where I say it was nice to meet you, but that seems like an understatement.”

“And holy shit am I glad I got to be the last few pages in your Portland chapter.”

I think I would fall in love with him if we had the time. It’s scary to know that and still walk away from it.

I miss him in a way I never, ever missed Ben.

His mouth on mine is the period at the end of that sentence, but it also feels the beginning of some sort of promise.

“Now it’s your adventure, too,” I say quietly. His smile echoes my tone. “Yeah.” “I’m really good at sharing,” I promise.