A Risk Worth Taking

by Jessica Joyce

“Well, Claireful,” he says, and the way he shapes my name makes me shiver. “Taking a leap and moving to a brand-new city is pretty brave to me, and I’m an expert, remember? So maybe your place on the spectrum is further over than you think.”

His hunger feeds mine, stripping away any coyness. “Slow and careful isn’t really what I want to be tonight.”

That mischievous smile curls back onto his face. “I’d better show you a good night, then, so you miss Portland a little when you leave.”

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

“I want to be careful with the time we have. I don’t want to blaze through it just because I’m fucking desperate for you. I want to…” His body betrays him, hips pushing forward as he groans. “I want to take care, I guess. Of you, and this.”

He looks over his shoulder, his keen gaze running over my body. I see the care there. It blows my mind that I woke up this morning not even knowing who this man was and now I’m in my bra in his bedroom, my heart racing, desperate to have his hands all over me.

“I love looking at you but I hate seeing you so far away.” He lifts his chin, an invitation to come to him, so I do.

“Show me how to be careful with this. I want it so fucking bad.”

We kiss like this for minutes—deep, searching ones that feel like their own conversation, playful, plucking ones that make us smile against each other’s mouths before it circles back to an intensity that has Connor shifting his hips into me.

Connor is silent, mesmerized, lips parted as I rise to my knees. He watches avidly while I unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants, an incredible feat given how tightly the material is straining. “I want you to,” he breathes. “Holy shit I want you to, but you don’t have to. It’s called a job for a reason.”

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

“It’s okay,” he says in a soft, evil little croon. His lips stretch into a satisfied grin. “I’ll do it again. Just give it to me now, okay?”

“I want you to come again,” he pants out when we’ve been at it for minutes, our skin slick everywhere. “Will you touch yourself? I want to see what that looks like.”

“It’s rude of you to be moving tomorrow,” he says conversationally, his lips brushing against my forehead.

He’s asleep ten seconds later. I use another precious minute to watch him, taking in the smile that doesn’t leave his lips even when he’s unconscious, before I close my eyes, too.

“I like you, Claire. Probably more than I should, given the circumstances. I’d have taken two more hours with you. I’m sure as hell going to take two days.”

If you put the two of us together, we’d be fully clothed—I’m decked out in his University of Michigan shirt, the state in which he grew up and went to school, and he’s upgraded to a pair of gym shorts that hug his ass reverently as he bends over to plug in the lights on his Christmas tree.

He scrunches his nose, an adorable move that probably got him out of trouble nine times out of ten when he was little.

“I’m going to say it wrong.” I can imagine the shape of his thoughts, likely puzzle pieces to mine. “I think I’ll know what you mean.”

“I know exactly what kind of kid you were, you little button pusher,” I say, digging my fingers into his side just to feel him squirm. I found that sensitive spot last night.

The champagne’s made him looser and bubbly, the human equivalent of what will now forever be my favorite drink. He’s golden and light, sending effervescence through my body. This entire weekend has been a beautiful buzz.

I tuck back into him, molding my body to his. After several beats, I whisper, “I’ll miss you tomorrow.”

His mouth is pulled down at the corners. It’s so strange to see; his lips were made to curve upward. The expression looks all wrong on him.

Even now, I sometimes get caught up in the risk and reward of the big decisions I make, like moving here. But the small ones matter, too. When you collect them in your hand over time, they grow just as massive. Connor and I are a testament to that.

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

“Jesus, this dress.” He says it like he’s in pain, gripping the ribbed knit fabric, pulling it up until the hem is at my hips instead of my ankles.

We don’t make it to the bedroom. I don’t even know if he has one, or if this is a studio, or if there are any walls other than the one he’s got me pinned against.

His expression melts into something that could easily slip into love, now that we have the time to get there.

“I already told you,” I say, just before he pulls me down for a kiss. “I want everything.”