“Very few brunette princesses.”
“There’s Belle. And she’s the best one, ain’t she?”
“I’ll take it.”
She settled back on her bed and drew Harry down with her. More kisses, hotter and deeper, rough with breath and the occasional moan, as they moved together. Beneath her hands, the muscles of his back rose and fell like waves—and she allowed herself simply to enjoy him. To want what she wanted. A man she could revel in and depend on and dig her nails into.
He teased her bra straps from her shoulders, his lips moving softly over the band of newly exposed skin. They made her shiver, those small, unexpected touches, soothing away a couple of tender spots where the elastic had rubbed. And slowly he worked his way downwards, his tongue exploring the ridges of her collarbone, and his mouth pressing kisses over the tops of her breasts. Sliding a hand behind her back he unhooked her bra, with a deftness that suggested practice, and she arched up to help him get her out of it. His thumbs brushed her nipples as his hands cupped her, and then he lowered his head to kiss her again.
“Not your thing then?” he asked, glancing up again a second or two later.
She froze, instantly self-conscious. “No, no, it’s fine.”
“Hoping for better than fine, mate.”
“Well, I mean”—great, now she was blushing—“people like breasts.”
“Yeah. And you’ve got great tits, but I like you enjoying yourself more.”
“I’m not not enjoying myself.”
He grinned and traced his tongue up the side of her neck—making her flash hot and cold and shuddery. “That’s you enjoying yourself.”
“Yes, but—”
“Look, I get it. Some birds don’t get much out of having their boobs touched. It’s all right. Everyone’s different. I’m weird about my ears.”
“So I shouldn’t blow in them then?”
“Not if you want this to go well, no.” He nipped at her shoulder, kissing into the hollows, until she was back to wriggling and clutching at him. “Though while we’re at it, I should probably check how far you wanna take this.”
“Um . . . what?”
“Well, you know. Don’t wanna do anything you’re not up for. But don’t wanna leave you hanging either.”
Somehow, Rosaline hadn’t expected this kind of directness. She’d always secretly suspected there was a chunk missing from the middle of her sex life. When she was a teenager, she hadn’t had a clue, but she and Lauren, and Tom for that matter, had been horny enough that it didn’t matter. And then when Amelie was old enough that Rosaline could start dating again, everyone else seemed so confident they knew what they were doing, she hadn’t quite had the courage to disagree.
Harry pushed himself onto an elbow, gazing down at her with a slightly bewildering combination of passion and consideration in his eyes. “You all right, mate? We can stop whenever you want. Doesn’t mean I’m not into it. Just want to make really sure you’re into it too.”
“I’m definitely into it,” she said hastily. “I’m just not used to talking about it.”
“Neither’s anyone else, but, I dunno, it helps. Like, how do I know what you like, if you don’t tell me what you like?”
“Okay, but that’s . . . that’s . . . scary.”
“Yeah, but it’s better than crap sex, init?” He trailed a hand lightly up and down her side. “I mean, I’m not saying you have to give me a list up front. Just, y’know, talk to me. Tell me if you want more of something, or less of something, or if I’m going too far or not far enough.”
“Right, but what do you want? This can’t only be about me.”
“Mate, I’m a bloke. It’s not complicated. I’m half-naked with a girl I fancy who wants to be with me. I’m well made up.”
“But that’s not helpful either,” protested Rosaline. “If you want me to tell you what I want, you have to tell me what you want.”
Again, one of those searching, hopeful, slightly vulnerable looks. “As long as you don’t think I’m trying to pressure you into nothing, I reckon I’d want to keep doing this. Figure out what gets you off. I reckon that’d get me off.”
“ExceptIdonthaveanycondoms.”
He laughed. “That’s all right.”
“It’s bloody well not all right. I got pregnant thinking it was all right.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just mean, we can do other stuff.”
“Oh.” She fell back against the pillow, faintly embarrassed. “Although, actually, there’s a twenty-four-hour Tesco’s down the road if you want to.”
“Not really, mate. I’d rather stay here.”
“You won’t feel . . . cheated or like you wasted your time?”
He looked mostly amused. But only mostly. “Fucking hell. How do you ever get any?”
“I do fine, thank you. But in my experience men like to . . . y’know. Have sex.”
“We are having sex. Or we was. Now we’re having a conversation. But come on, you’ve been with girls, you must know sex don’t have to mean getting a cock up your muff.”
“I do know that,” she told him. “It’s just most straight people haven’t got the memo.”
“Well, I’ve got three sisters, and one of them’s married to a girl. So . . . I did. Now, how do you feel about me getting you off? Unless you’d rather carry on having a debate about it.”
“I . . . I’ve killed the mood, haven’t I?”
“Mate, I know I keep saying this, but I’m a bloke. You’re hot and you’ve got your tits out. The mood’s not going nowhere.”
Rosaline reached up and ran her fingers over his tattoo, following the detailing on the feathers, and then—on the other side—the letters as they flowed into each other. “I like these.”
“Got ’em a while ago. Bit teenage really, aren’t they? But me and Terry had ’em done for his eighteenth—he had a bunch of things he wanted, with like, meaning and shit, and I thought well, the wing was pretty and the club motto looks better in Latin.”
“Honestly,” Rosaline admitted, “I did something similar when I was sixteen.” She rolled over to show him her back. “I went with one of my best friends at the time—this girl called Antonia, I haven’t seen her in years—and we both decided to get butterflies. And she came out with this tiny little thing on her hip, and I was already one session deep into, well, these.”
Leaning over her, Harry pressed a deep, warm kiss to her shoulder blade. “Go big or go home, init.”
His hands meandered across her back, the calluses on his fingers slightly rough against her skin, and she sighed, lost in the simple sensuality of it. It was strange, because she couldn’t see him now, but she never lost her awareness that it was him—there was something so familiar in his touch, something unmistakably Harry, that reminded her of eating fish fingers at her kitchen table and running away from a goat in the dark. It made her feel sort of safe and sort of tender and sort of like ripping the rest of his clothes off and claiming him: someone she almost hadn’t let herself want.