I wish I wanted him to stop. That’s at the heart of the problem. I can tell him to stop all I want, that this is wrong, that I don’t want him touching or kissing me, but it’s all a lie. He has a way of lighting me up inside, of making me feel things. Of making me want when I was so sure I wouldn’t want anyone, for any reason, for a very long time.

It turns out I want him. That’s the issue. I only want him touching me like this. Holding me, caressing me, refusing to stop because somehow he knows what I need better than I do.

Like how he drapes my leg over his thigh before running a hand over it. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of this,” he whispers. “The feel of you. The way you come apart in my hands, under me.”

“You have to know this brings up all kinds of bad shit for me, right?”

“You can forget all of that now. Let’s replace it with good memories.” He pulls me closer and holds me tight, so tight there’s no chance of getting away. Not that I want to. I can’t resist the warmth and comfort of his embrace. “And this is how you do it. By taking back what you want. What makes you feel good.”

His touch is featherlight as he grazes my ass again, this time allowing his hand to drift between my thighs. “What makes you feel good? What do you want?”

What do I want? I want him to stop talking. More than that, I want to do what he described. I want to take this back for me. I want to do this because I want to. Not because somebody else told me to or because they’re directing me. I want.

When he leans in, pressing his lips to mine, I don’t resist. No, I kiss him back as hard as I can, hard enough that our teeth clash as our tongues touch, then tangle together in our joined mouths. We tangle the rest of ourselves, too, arms and legs, and this time, I know it’s not a dream.

He wants me. And I want him. I want this.