The True Love Experiment

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a talker, but I’m good with silence, too. Jess and I have spent many a workday sitting across from each other in productive quiet. I love the gentle moments with Juno on my couch, her little head in my lap while she reads. I love the big-sky serenity of a hike with my brother, Peter, or the leisurely peace of mah-jongg with my mother. Truth is, you’ll never meet a book lover who hates the quiet.

But after the easy, overlapping flow of our conversation tonight, this silence with Connor is heavy. Side by side we sit in the sand, our legs stretched out before us, toes wiggling up at the sky. He’s rolled his pants up, exposing feet, ankles, the lower half of his calves. His legs are tanned and lightly dusted with hair, muscled. The way he leans back on his hands, face tilted to the night breeze… it’s like he’s offering his body up for worship. That geometric, superhero chest. The long, corded neck, the bunching density of his shoulders. I feel my brain shrieking all the breathless, desperate thoughts, like Your body is unreal

and I want your hands on me

and Fuck me into the sand.

But what surprises me is that the silence has quieter thoughts, too. Things like I really like you

and You’re sort of my favorite person lately

and I want to be excited for tomorrow but all I can think is how I don’t want tonight to end.

Of course, this final thought lands just as Connor coughs into his fist, breaking the stillness. “So,” he says, and smiles shyly over at me in a way that acknowledges how heavy things just got, how there is something hot and tangible in the air between us but maybe if we talk over it, it will dissipate. “You ready for tomorrow?”

Inhaling sharply, I sit up straighter. Right. Get yourself together, Fizzy. “I am. I hope I can sleep tonight. I really don’t want to show up all puffy and shadowed tomorrow.”

“I was going to say,” he says, smiling, “you’ve appeared very calm for someone who’s about to be on television.”

“I won’t deny that I’ve had regular facials since I agreed to do this and invested in some new gravity-defying bras.” He laughs. “But I’ve also done so many signings where people have taken and posted photos of me from awful angles, there’s really no point pretending to be a supermodel now.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says. “You always take my breath away.”

We both go still, staring straight out at the surf while the echo of his words spirals around us. My pulse goes quiet for a moment and then it roars to life, a walloping throb in my neck. And I can almost feel it in him, the way he wishes the waves would stretch up here and wash that moment away.

“Well—so. Anyway.” His voice bursts out now, jazz hands, distracting. “You seem more excited for the first day of filming, at least. That’s good.”

I’m still raw from his declaration. Connor is an oak tree, and the more time I spend with him the more I register how frequently I feel like a stray leaf blown at the whim of my impulsive decisions and my roller-coaster job and even my own moods. You always take my breath away, he said. He doesn’t do casual, isn’t good at it. Of course he isn’t. Unfortunately, that’s partly why I like him. He moves steadily, with intent, through the world. I am so drawn to him it feels magnetic.

“I am excited,” I admit carefully. “And I know you did an amazing job with casting. That said, I hope there’s a contestant in the group who makes me feel even a fraction of what I’m feeling tonight.”

I’ve kept my eyes fixed on the water, but I can feel him turn and look at me.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

Instead of answering, I shift and, slowly enough that he can stop me if he wants, I climb over him, settling on top of his thighs. “It means I’m, like, insanely attracted to you.”

I feel something with Connor that I don’t want to label quite yet, but it scares me to think I’d ever have to give it up.

“Fizzy.”

“Yes?”

He stares at me, eyes shadowed, and adjusts his posture to set one warm palm on my hip. “Haven’t we already decided this is a bad idea?”

His tone isn’t accusatory. It’s gentle and curious and maybe the tiniest bit hungry.

“Yes.” I swallow, getting my longing under control. “But I was sitting here thinking how much I wanted to touch you and how scared I am at the idea of going home tonight and never feeling this way again.”

Connor reaches up, coaxing a few flyaway strands of hair away from my face. “Do you really think that’s possible?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I used to be attracted to people all the time. I used to love sex. I liked that fun and adventurous side of me so much. Being near you… it makes me feel like myself again, but a much more grounded version.”

“That’s a good thing, sweet,” he says gently. “And may I add that maybe what you’re also feeling lately is growth.” The wind blows another strand of my hair across my eyes, and he gently tucks it behind my ear. “You are so much more than your playful, sexy, adventurous author persona. You are that, of course, but you are also a woman with thoughtful depth and sensitive layers, and I wonder whether the way you feel lately is less about me and more about connecting with a new side of yourself.”

I can’t blink away from his steady gaze. My blood seems to vibrate with what he’s just said. “That’s probably the deepest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He laughs at this. “In any case, I’m glad for you to be reminded before the show that you are a sexual person. That you can connect with someone this way.”

“And here I am,” I say, grinning. “Connecting with you.”

His gaze searches mine for a second and his expression softens. “Mm-hmm.”

“I’m not asking you to kiss me or do anything more than this. I just wanted to be close to you one time.” I reach up, tracing the shell of his ear. “I’m going to miss you, starting tomorrow.”

This makes him smile, but he directs it at my lips. “But starting tomorrow you’ll see me more often.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“I’ll have to share you,” I say. “It’ll be weird.”

It’s the way he tilts his chin, I think. He just lifts it slightly, a tiny, unspoken come on, then.

I lean in, slowly, so he can lean away. But he doesn’t, and the second my lips meet his, I have the spiraling sensation of never having been kissed before. Connor is a mountain of a man, warm and massive, solid as bedrock beneath me. His mouth is soft and strong, commanding and pliable. Pleasure spears a sweet arrow through the center of my chest, and in a flash, our simple kiss flares, all the pent-up feelings pouring out as our mouths move together.

My God.

It is the best kiss of my entire lifetime.

He tilts his head, coming at me better somehow, and deeper, his lips parting to slot between mine, one hand wrapping around my hip to pull me flush against him, the other sliding up my neck, cupping my face.

I know passion—in the heat of many moments, I’ve collided with walls and broken furniture—but already this is something else. This is more than just urges and instinct; it’s connection and longing uncorked. The feel of Connor’s body beneath me leaves no doubt we could break anything in my house, but this hunger is intimate, too, sacred; burning me up from the inside. I am undone by the way his breath shakes against my lips and the quiet groans he strangles down when I sweep my tongue across his, when I wrap my arms around his neck, threading hands into his hair. I feel a desperate ache spiral through my torso when his hand leaves my hip and slides up under my sweater, big palm smoothing up my ribs, cupping my breast, coaxing my bra down as he kisses me with his hungry, teasing mouth. I sense that if we do this only once he wants to feel every inch of me. I want it, too, pressing into his hand, encouraging him with sounds, with my teeth scraping over his lower lip, his chin, down the sharp line of his neck.

The ocean roars behind us, waves rolling over themselves to break against the sand. My hands wander the width of his shoulders, down his chest to the flat plane of his stomach. His cheeks are flushed in the glow of the moon, lips full and bitten, eyes heavy with lust. A mark blooms on the skin of his throat, as clear as if I’ve graffitied my name there. This spot belongs to Felicity Chen. I want to put my mark all over his body, claiming. I reach between us, pressing a hand over the solid shape of him, my mind bottoming out when I register what I’m feeling. He’s big, and my body clenches, suddenly, painfully hollow.

I roll my hips against him, but instead of bringing relief it only makes me wilder. His mouth chases my kiss, swallowing the sound I make when he rocks up, the thick line of his cock pressing exactly where I need him. His hands cup my ass, pushing me away and pulling me closer, back and forth, again and again. I know I could come like this. It’s right there, shimmering on the edge of sensation, and I’m torn between letting my greedy body have its way and dragging him to the car so I can take my time.

But before I can unbutton his pants, he guides my hand away and pulls my hips closer again, arching into me.

“Take me home,” I tell him. “I want you so bad, Connor. Just one time.”

He breathes against my throat, mouth open, the shape of my name pressed into my skin. It seems to take monumental effort for him to pull away long enough to gaze up at me, only an inch between our faces, but it’s enough for the cold, wet ocean air to invade the space. His eyes clear and he takes a deep, shaking breath. Bending, he rests his forehead to my shoulder, exhaling in a long, slow stream.

Finally, he says simply, “No.”

Inside I am a beast with sharp, gnashing teeth. My clawed hands grab at the bars, shaking my cage. “Why?”

“Fizzy. We can’t.” But he doesn’t let me go. He pulls me into his body, holding me. Connor takes a deep breath, chest expanding against me, and then he seems to deflate. “We just can’t.”

In his arms, with his deep breaths setting a rhythm for my own, my fevered dust settles.

“It wouldn’t have to mean anything more than two friends scratching an itch,” I whisper.

“Unfortunately, I suspect it might mean a good deal more than that.”

I go still, feeling rattled by his words.

“Fizzy.” A gentle surrender hangs between us. “I really need this show to work,” he says quietly. “I don’t regret this, but it can’t happen.”

Leaning back, I frown, drawing a line from his forehead, down the straight angle of his nose, over his lips, and release a low growl. “Fine. Just take me home and I’ll dig in my nightstand for the biggest vibrator I can find.”

He laughs, and I hug him again, pouring all my gratitude into the embrace. Connor is awesome. I think about this friend I have now, this open, curious, steady man. I might not get to have him, but at least I get to keep him.

“I had fun on our quest for joy,” I say into his neck.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.”

“But you’re the one who ended the insanely good groping, so you’re obligated to carry me to the car.”

“Is that right?”

“I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.”

I can feel the relief in his laugh that comes out warm against my hair. “Okay then.”

It takes some awkward shifting, hard parts sliding against soft spaces and his face in my boobs, but he manages to stand up with my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. With one tiny, final peck to my cheek, Connor carries our overheated bodies back to the parking lot.