“Swamp cooler,” Tyler tells me. “My mom and I didn’t have air conditioning in our apartment, so we rigged up a fan and ice and it worked pretty good.” He positions the ice in front of the fan and I might be imagining it, but the air seems cooler.
“Would you hand me an ice cube, please?” I ask. Even if the swamp cooler doesn’t do much, at least I can use the ice to cool off.
Tyler hands me one and takes one himself, rubbing it on the back of his neck and then stepping in front of the fan.
“I like the direct approach,” I say, skimming the ice cube down my arms and along my collarbone. “The swamp cooler is good, but this works better.”
Tyler sits on the bed as I rub the ice cube on my body. “I like the direct approach, too.” His voice is low, rasping. He mimics my movements on his own body and his melting ice cube sends little rivulets of water down his chest.
The energy in the room shifts in a tidal wave and I’m suddenly hyperaware of Tyler.
We sit on opposite sides of the bed in the faint light, watching each other as the ice cubes melt. We bathe in the fan’s breeze and I look at Tyler, cataloging every micro-expression, every small twitch on his face and curve of his lip.
I see the cowlick on his forehead that never lays down straight, his dark lashes fringing mahogany eyes, and the cords on his neck that connect to strong shoulders.
The intimacy of this is too much. We’re too close, yet we’re not touching. Is that what makes this connection OK with Tyler? Does he simply not want to touch me? He’s touched me before—my gross feet, my shredded knees. Maybe he can handle that touching because he doesn’t feel that way for me.
But Tyler’s expression suggests otherwise, his eyes hooded and his pupils nearly black. I want to believe I’m seeing desire, but I’m afraid to say a word. I just stare at his body and let him see mine.
My thin tank top is pale blue cotton and it soaks up too much water. It sticks to my skin and I’m sure Tyler can see my nipples through it. I pretend I don’t notice and I let him hand me another ice cube. I sit cross-legged, facing him as he skates the ice past his pierced nipple.
I gasp and Tyler’s gaze is immediately focused on me.
“Lie down, Stella.” I don’t even protest. I can’t overthink this simple command that is everything I want and need right now.
I lie back and close my eyes as Tyler picks up an ice cube. He starts with the inside of my wrist, holding my hand in his, palm side up. I yield to him, giving permission. Hell, I’d give him an all-access pass if he would just take it.
But he doesn’t. He won’t. Instead, he draws maddening circles and lines across my body with the ice. My neck, my shoulders, my collarbone, my cleavage. When I feel a small tug at my waist, I lean forward and let him pull the soaking tank top off of me.
But I still can’t look in his eyes.
Tyler lets the ice cube wander up and down my stomach, between my breasts but not touching them. I feel him shift his own body next to me, from sitting to lying on his side, and he traces lazy circles on my skin. He reaches low to my knee, then slides the ice cube up my thigh and down again, up and down, agonizingly slowly.
I let my knees fall open just enough and he continues, each stroke working the melting ice cube closer to my inner thigh.
My body is on fire as the ice sears my skin. I keep my eyes closed and lose myself to this sensation. Tyler is exploring and I’m dying a little with every stroke, dying for him to touch me, and dying because he can’t. Or won’t. Or some stupid excuse that makes no fucking sense right now.
My body throbs and I feel the moisture pool between my legs, every nerve aroused and attuned to him. I’m lost in this moment without sex or alcohol or any sensation except a single ice cube and Tyler’s presence.
His hands might not be on my body, but I know his eyes are, and that’s enough to short-circuit every sane thought in my head about remaining cheerfully platonic. I can’t. I’m dying to touch him but every time I do, he rejects me, and I don’t think I can take it again.
Tyler shifts his body, the heat of his chest radiating through my arm. Air feathers across my nipples and they’re peaked, my breasts almost flattened against my chest as I lie on my back. It’s not a good look and I’m sure that’s why Tyler isn’t touching them.
“Stella.” Tyler’s voice is a growl and my eyes open. He slips the last of the ice cube between his lips and I’m afraid that this is the end of one of the most erotic experiences of my life.
Instead, his hands return to the ice cube’s path, their familiar rhythm stroking my thigh from my knee to where my pajama shorts end. There’s no pretense of an ice cube. His gaze is hot and raw but I can tell he’s struggling. He’s asking for permission.
“Yes.” I let him hold my gaze as his hand travels higher, skimming the edge of my shorts. Beneath them, I’m naked, and I shiver when his fingers brush the curve of my leg at my bikini line. I draw my knees farther apart. I want him.
Tyler exhales slowly, as if relief is washing over him, and his long fingers explore me beneath the edge of my shorts. He touches with reverence and curiosity, with gentleness and need, and I moan as his fingers reach my center and play in the moisture there.
My hips buck, pleading with Tyler to come closer. I feel sweat sliding from my chest but Tyler’s eyes are fastened on mine, his expression intense.
And tender. I buck again and his eyes sweep my body, as if he’s just discovering the rest of me. When his gaze returns to my face, he settles on my mouth. His lips part and he offers a hesitant kiss, soft and sweet.
I take it with relish. I kiss him back with passion that shouts what my heart feels even though I won’t let my words tell him. I grip the hair at the back of his head and my kiss tells him everything I need.
I’m breathless when his fingers finally enter me, first one and then two, and plunge and twist to reach the deepest places within me.
Pleasure builds in my body and I break our kiss with a moan, feeling the first tingles of a building orgasm. Tyler’s fingers move like ocean waves, gentle and persistent, and he ducks his head, his mouth capturing my nipple and rolling it between his teeth and tongue.
I am electricity. Pure energy. I spark and flash with his touch inside me, groaning with the pressure and pull of his mouth on my breast. I rock hard against his hand, his thumb pressed to the apex, sending little lightning bolts up my chest and down my legs.
I shake with desire and Tyler releases my breast, moving back to my mouth with a molten gaze that is terrifying and wild. It tells me I am his, and he plunges inside my mouth again to bring us closer, my tongue to his, his breath in my lungs, our sweat mingling as we grasp and pull each other closer.
And then I am over the edge, spiraling as a current of energy hits me so hard that I cry out and arch my back and twist in his hand. I’m riding this wave of energy and I feel it racing to the shore, ready to tumble me beneath it.
Tyler catches me when I crash, his hands gentling, his strokes softer and more fluid. He feels my vulnerability and releases his fingers from their anchor between my legs, skimming them up the curves of my hip and breast to my shoulder.
He pulls me close and rains tiny kisses on my cheeks, forehead and eyelids. He offers closeness and comfort in my afterglow. Finally, I feel him—I let my hands touch him back and I wrap my body into his, naked chest to naked chest, only a thin sheen of sweat between us.
My head nestles on his chest above his strong heartbeat and our breathing grows steady and even. He strokes my arm and my waist, gestures more caring than needy.
I can’t speak to him. I can’t ask what this means for us—I’m too afraid of the answer. So I let him keep touching me as I explore his body.