Page 35 of Undefined Terms

Because I want so much my hands are shaking, my heartbeat thundering, and if Celyn undoes that belt here, against this wall, I’m going to. That’s the problem, I’ve never done this. Not this, not with hands like these on me.

‘You want this,’ Celyn says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Then stop thinking.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘No,’ Celyn says, eyes on mine. ‘You’re thinking about trying.’

The wrist is still in my hand. The ring presses into my palm. Cold, then warm.

‘Not here,’ I say.

Celyn’s face shifts.

‘No?’

‘My place.’

A beat.

Then Celyn smiles, small and not quite steady.

‘Good.’

The flat, my flat, the door.

I get the key wrong twice, wrong way round, fingers thick and the lock is small and Celyn’s stood behind me in the hallway, breathing fast.

Inside, the door shuts.

Celyn pushes me, not hard, not rough, just decided. Hands on my chest and the bed’s there because the flat’s a shoebox and everything’s three steps from everything else.

I sit on the edge.

Celyn stands in front, between my knees.

The t-shirt comes off. Celyn pulls it over the head in one motion and underneath is skin. Just skin. No bra, no vest, nothing. Flat, the stomach, the line of dark hair below the navel. The collarbones. The muscles lean, built from trays not rebar. The stubble on the chin, the upper lip. The skin pale, and the whole of them at once is.

My mouth opens, my hands close.

Nothing comes out of me that’s a word.

Celyn’s hands on my shirt. Pulling it up. I lift my arms like I’m told. The shirt goes. Celyn looks, the body, the hair on it sparse and dark against the skin, the shoulders broad from the hoist and the shovelling, the stomach flat and hard from the work because the site doesn’t leave room for soft. The arms, the biceps from the rebar, the forearms thick, the tan line at the sleeve. Celyn’s fingers trace the line. The look isn’t hungry, it’s worse than hungry, it’s. Deliberate, like reading something.

‘Lie back.’

I lie back.

Celyn on top. Knees either side. The weight, real, solid, the hips pressing through the jeans. Kisses, the mouth, the neck. I hear myself make a sound I didn’t plan.

Belts, both. Celyn’s fingers on mine, quick. My fingers on Celyn’s, slow, too big, the buckle fighting back. Celyn laughs, not at me, at the buckle. The laugh is warm and close and the breath on my stomach when Celyn leans down to undo it and.

Jeans, both. Under Celyn’s, boxers, black, cotton, plain. Nothing underneath it. Celyn just waits, hips tilted up, and I get there on my own. On the cotton, on the heat.

‘Here. Like this.’