The first kiss was shy, probing and bordering on tepid. His lips were tentative and unassuming; hers chaste and unyielding. Sensing her resistance, he moved his hand an inch south of her lower back and pulled her closer, letting the fullness of his arousal say the things his lips were failing to. For a while he held her thus; one hand tilting her head back while the other traced random patterns across her back, until the fight went out of her. Her back arched as she melted into his arms, her lips parted with an audible sigh, and the hands that she had planted resolutely at her sides were now travelling up his chest.
He deepened the kiss. He devoured her lips with a ferocity he did not know he possessed, until his mind was a blank slate. When he slipped a clumsy hand up her blouse, however, the trance he had lulled her into fell away like the wispy strings of an abandoned cobweb.
“No,” she declared, placing a trembling hand on his chest and making a feeble attempt to push him away. He pulled her closer still.
“Why not?” he breathed, his face inches from her own. She looked so lovely, her hair in a disheveled heap, cheeks flushed and eyes wide as eggs. And her lips…
She started to say something; started to recite some thin excuse that probably included a headache or particularly nasty cramps, but he knew better than to let her finish. Much of his success rested on his ability to keep her flustered and unable to string together a coherent sentence. So he captured her lips once more. She made to jerk her head away, but the effort allowed him to take advantage of her parted lips, and then his tongue was beating down the last vestiges of her resistance. He felt her shudder, felt the dam of emotions break, and suddenly he could not wait a second longer.
With practiced hands he found the buttons at the front of her blouse, and with easy flicks he worked them loose. His hands caressed perfect skin for a minute, and then the impatience reared its ugly head again and he reached for the bra. Her hand came up then, and he saw the objection in her eyes before he heard it in her voice.
“Stop,” she whispered. There was a certain quality to her voice that he had not heard before. “Do you love me?”
It sounded oddly like a desperate appeal, like her world would fall apart if he did not tell her what she wanted to hear. So he responded the only way he knew how- with the easy flattery that had gotten him past situations like these before.
“Of course I love you. I love you with every fibre of my being; it is the one thing I am certain of, that I love you now as I could never have believed possible.”
“No matter what happens? You love me?” she asked again.
“No matter what,” he agreed.
He saw the doubt blossom in her eyes, and then it flickered and died, to be replaced with a lewd gleam that both excited and terrified him. This time it was her lips that found his. She kissed him ardently and furiously, and when he raised his hands to her breasts she shrugged off the blouse and guided his fingers to the clasp at the back of her bra.
The rest of their clothing fell away in a frenzy of torrid kisses and clumsy hand movements. She was even lovelier to behold with her clothes in a tangled heap at her feet. He stared appreciatively at her shapely breasts and erect nipples, and his heart froze as he trailed moist kisses across her belly. She had the broadest hips, the softest skin, the most intoxicating smell. And when his fingers brushed at the wetness of her arousal, the control he had been fighting to retain flew out the window. He had meant to be gentle- the parts of him that were still subject to reason wanted only to be gentle- but her legs had parted beneath him, and his world was now bundled into a stiff and uncontrollable yearning that wiped all else from his mind.
He slid into her with a soft, swift stroke. If he slid in much easier than he should have, he thought nothing of it. In that moment, all that existed for him was that tidal wave of agonizing sweetness. There was no earth, no ground, only her nails biting into his back and the sharp gasps she gave with every thrust. There was no air, no sound; only the fragrant cloud that was her hair and the occasional glimpse through half-lidded eyes, of her tortured face with her lips open in a passionate abandon. On and on it went, him and her and her and him; a tangle of legs and limbs writhing first on the couch and then sprawling on the antique carpet.
It was not until he disentangled himself from her that his wits returned to him. His wits, that is, along with the doubts and misconceptions that had been festering at the back of his mind. And if he had not had cause to suspect it before, he saw it now in her face. Guilt. He looked down at himself and noted with mounting concern the absence of blood. Somehow he was sure there should have been blood. There should always be blood with virgins, he had heard. And then there was that business of the hymen, which he could not remember shattering on his way in. He felt the post coital haze dissolve and harden into a solid lump of fury at his throat.
She had asked him if he loved her, he recalled. “No matter what,” she had demanded. He turned to face her, and the accusation he had meant to fling at her withered and died at his lips. If he was wrong, then why was she avoiding his gaze?
“You were not a virgin.”
It was a statement, not a question; a statement he had meant to utter with the aloof indifference of someone who had just had meaningless sex. Instead, he brought it out in the hurt tones of a jilted lover.
“You said you love me…you said no matter what…” she had found her voice at last, but it was so loaded with accusation and desperation that it barely sounded like her. What he perceived was that she did not have the common decency to deny it. So he just stared at her, letting his silence fan her anxiety as he tried to understand why it bothered him. Yes, he had told her he loved her. He had even put it in the flowery garments of poetry. But that had been part of the ploy to get her to unclench, surely? She meant no more to him than that. Why then, did it bother him that she had lied to him about a simple matter of virginity?
No. He would not dignify her betrayal with a mental analysis. He had gotten what he wanted. This girlish sentimentalism was as ghastly as it was unbecoming. So he located his clothes and pulled them on, effecting his most polished ‘I couldn’t care less’ expression. Then he strode from the room in a fit of bottled rage. She made no move to stop him, and that too bothered him. So he turned back to ask her to please not presume to call him again.
And then he was out the door, and the only thing his brilliant mind thought to suggest to him was: ‘The treacherous bitch had nice tits.’