“Sorry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure why. It felt excessive, somehow, evidence of something too much in her.
“No, I love it, I love it,” he murmured.
And then he was on his knees, pulling down her underwear, and his mouth was on her, his hot breath, his tongue. She pulled him back up.
“Not that.” She reached between his legs. “This.”
He freed himself from his sweatpants in one movement and she realized he was not wearing any underwear. He stroked himself with one hand and sank a finger back into her with the other.
“You sure?” he asked, his hands moving in tandem, one on him, one in her.
Avery nodded, closing her eyes. He braced himself over her, then pushed the length of himself inside of her in one long thrust. She gasped. How long had it been since she’d felt this? Ten years? More? She had never slept with a man sober. Charlie began to move in and out slowly and she heard herself making noises that weren’t familiar at all, little animal moans and whines. He seemed to be touching the deepest part of her. As she whimpered, he cupped her head in his hands and looked at her. His face above her was utterly defenseless.
“I’m not hurting you?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“No.”
“You don’t want me to stop?”
“No.”
She squeezed her eyes shut again and pushed her mouth up onto his. She breathed his breath. He tasted vaguely sweet, like apple juice. Then he was moving inside of her again, deep rhythmic strokes through the center of her. She was sweating and so was he, their chests slipping against each other. He pushed her hair from her damp temples and kissed her there. She burrowed her face into the heat of his neck. She didn’t think about anything except the feel of him. It was the not-thinking she loved most, the not-thinking that she never wanted to end.
“I’m close,” he said eventually.
“Wait for me.”
She grabbed handfuls of his buttocks and pulled him into her, thrusting him deeper and deeper in a succession of sharp, quick pumps. Then she squeezed a hand between her pelvis and his so she could touch herself as he moved inside of her. With a great throbbing wave, she came. She ached and ached with it. As the wave subsided, she felt the involuntary release and heard a soft sigh as he emptied himself inside of her. Avery’s eyes rolled back in her head. There it was, that familiar sensation, unbidden yet unforgotten, of pleasure locked in consort with pain. Just like plunging down the piston of a syringe.
—
Afterward, they lay side by side, their backs against the wall, their legs hanging over the narrow bed. He leaned over to scoop up his crumpled sweatpants and draped them over his crotch with a self-conscious gesture that surprised her. She looked down to see his semen leaking out of her. It formed a wet, dark patch on the pale gray duvet between her legs.
“Shit,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Here.”
He grabbed the leg of his sweatpants and held it to her as though stemming the flow of blood from a wound.
“Thanks,” she said, wiping herself roughly with the fabric.
“Are you…on some kind of birth control?”
She glanced at him.
“Why is it that men only ever ask that after they’ve come inside you?”
Charlie ducked his head with embarrassment.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask,” he said. “Let me know if I can pay for—”
“No, absolutely not,” Avery said.
She stood up and pulled on her underwear, then began wrapping herself back up in her dress. She was struggling to find the little hole the sash went through to close the thing.
“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” she said in a rush. “You’re a newcomer and I’m—”
Charlie stood up and pulled on his sweatpants, clearly unperturbed that they had just been used to soak up his cum. He stepped toward her and took the sash from her hand, deftly weaving it through the slit in the fabric at her waist, then tying it in a bow with the other end.
“Look, I have three months but I’m not three months old. I’m twenty-seven, man.”
Avery looked up at his face. Nicky’s age. He was Nicky’s age.
“Twenty-seven is young,” she said softly.
“It doesn’t feel it.”
“It’s just—it’s your first year in the program. You’ll see, it’s a vulnerable time.”
“I know, I know. But I’ve already changed a lot.”
Charlie went over to a pair of jeans slung over his desk chair and pulled a pack of cigarettes and his silver Zippo from the back pocket. He opened his window and motioned for her to join him.
“When did you start smoking?” she asked, accepting the cigarette he offered her.
