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It was Vince’s mention of marriage. I wasn’t prepared for that, and I was suddenly filled with longing. To have a husband and in-laws like the Fongs. Not because of their wealth, but because they genuinely seem like good people, and they were excited to meet me. I also enjoyed seeing them tease Julian.
It was a longing for something I can never have.
But in the twenty-four hours since then, I’ve mostly managed to push that out of my mind, and last night, there was some pretty hot and heavy kissing before bed. I was lying underneath Julian on the couch, and he was kissing me everywhere. I didn’t want him to remove any of my clothes, and he seemed to understand that without me telling him. But his cock was hard and heavy between us and, God, it was tempting.
Today at the lab, I could hardly think of anything but being naked in bed with him.
It’s only Tuesday. We still have twelve more days together.
I don’t know how I’m going to survive this, but I’m determined to do it and get my five thousand dollars, which is why I head to Chris’s Coffee Shop after work to meet my sister.
“Hey.” Naomi sits down across from me, coffee in hand. She looks at me for a moment, then says, “You haven’t slept with him yet. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I groan. “Last night, after I met his family—”
“You met his family? What’s his dad like? I’m curious.”
“His father wasn’t there. Anyway, after that, Julian and I made dinner together, then we played Scrabble—”
“Which you won, naturally, since you always win at Scrabble.”
“No, he won. Because Julian is a freak of nature and he’s amazing at everything.”
Her mouth falls open. “You lost a game of Scrabble? For real?”
“Quit distracting me. Anyway, then we watched a movie.” Ocean’s Eleven—he managed to stay awake this time. “Afterward, there was some, um, kissing. A lot of kissing. And this wasn’t the first time.”
“Hmm. You say he’s amazing at everything, so it’s only natural to conclude—”
“Believe me, I think about it constantly.” I have a sip of my gingerbread latte, but that doesn’t hide the heat rushing to my cheeks.
“I know you have trouble separating sex from the other stuff, but it is possible. I’ve done it many times. You don’t have to develop feelings for every guy you sleep with.”
“You’re different from me. Plus, the last time you insisted it was ‘just sex,’ you ended up falling for the guy.”
“Yep, and now we’re together and it’s awesome. That could happen to you, too.”
I realize my mistake in talking to Naomi about this. She’s happily in love and that’s all she can see.
But my sister is my best friend. She’s the only one who always stuck by me. When I first had problems with depression in high school, my parents were in denial despite what the doctor told them. My mother eventually came around and understood that I really was sick, but now she just walks on eggshells and tries not to upset me.
My father is still in denial and thinks I’m just weak.
Dad and I don’t talk much anymore. I used to be my father’s girl, and when I was little, he would help me with my science kits and always encouraged my interests. He supported my desire to be a scientist and didn’t push me to be a doctor, unlike some of my friends’ parents. But after that episode when I was sixteen, nothing was quite the same. When I went on leave from university and moved back home, we mostly spoke through my mother.
“If you were actually sick,” he said, “the medications would work.”
Yet, no matter how many drugs I tried, nothing changed except the side effects.
Many years ago, my aunt told me that their father—my paternal grandfather—had killed himself back in Hong Kong. I was shocked. I knew he’d died before I was born, but I’d never known much about him. Sometimes I wonder if my father’s denial is because he fears I will end my life like his own father and can’t bear to think of it, but I’m not sure.
My friends didn’t stick by me, either. Not in high school, not in university, and that hurt. After I finally finished undergrad—a year late—and started grad school, I kept my issues to myself. When I didn’t feel good, I’d pretend everything was fine. I became good at faking it.
Naomi was always there, though, and I always told her the truth.
“Look,” she says, taking my hand, “if you get depressed again—”
“I’m not sure why you don’t think it’s inevitable. Once you’ve had three episodes of depression like I have, the chances of it happening again are very, very high.”
“Okay, when it happens again, I bet it’ll be better than last time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, last time was better than the time before, wasn’t it?”
“It was still really fucking bad,” I say.
“You’re in Toronto with me now, rather than in Kingston. You know yourself better. You’ve been more stable in the past few years.”
Even though my episodes of severe depression happen once every five years, that doesn’t mean I’m completely healthy in between. I feel like my mental health is in a precarious position, like it’s something I’ll always have to treat with care. But it’s true that I’ve been reasonably healthy since I started my job at U of T two years ago. I’m better at taking care of myself now and have coping strategies I didn’t have before. Whenever I make a decision, I ask myself, “Is this good for my mental health?” When I’m in a particularly bad spot and struggle with suicidal thoughts, the question is closer to, “Will this kill me?” but the idea is the same.
The reason for my self-imposed ban on sex is because of my mental health. I get attached easily and cannot afford a repeat of what happened with Dane, yet another person who didn’t stick by me.
“I know you’re thinking about Dane,” Naomi says, “but the reason that hurt so much was because you’d been together for a year and a half, and he ditched you at the worst point in your life. Anyway, I’m not saying you should definitely sleep with Julian, but maybe let yourself have fun and see where it goes. You could end up like me and Will.”
“Julian’s already told me he doesn’t do relationships.”
“What are his reasons for that?”
“He works too hard. He doesn’t have time for a girlfriend.” I blow out a breath. “It’s definitely tempting to go to bed with him, though. Just a little fun. I’m not sure it’s realistic to deny myself sex for the rest of my life.”
When I came up with my no-sex-for-Courtney plan more than three years ago, it was after a few sexual encounters—satisfying, but not mind-blowing—with a grad student in the history department. I started getting attached and he didn’t. I figured sex wasn’t worth the hassle. I could satisfy my own needs, couldn’t I?
For the past three years, that’s been enough for me.
But when I feel Julian on top of me, kissing his way down my neck, I know no toy could do what he’s capable of. The no-sex-for-Courtney rule no longer seems reasonable.
I miss sex. I miss physical intimacy. And Julian is right there, very willing.
“Well, I couldn’t give up sex,” Naomi says. “But I’m not you. I understand why this is difficult for you.”
“Sex releases endorphins,” I say, thinking out loud. “Endorphins are good for you. They make you happy.”
This might be good for my mental health after all. Sure, there could be a few of those pesky feelings involved, but I suddenly feel like I can handle them. Besides, I won’t have too much time with him—less than two weeks. How attached could I get in two weeks? It’s nothing like Dane.
Naomi chuckles. “Sounds like you’ve talked yourself into it.”
I nod, happy with my decision. “I’m going to create some endorphins tonight.”
* * *
After finishing my gingerbread latte, I head home, and by “home,” I mean Julian’s penthouse. Weird how I’ve started thinking of it as home.
Julian isn’t in the living room or on the rooftop patio, and if he was going out, he would have told me. I check his bedroom. It’s the first time I’ve seen his bedroom, actually. His bed is enormous, and my heart rate speeds up as I imagine us rolling around in it together.
But he’s not in his bedroom, not now.
I glance at the doors leading to his washroom and closet, and it gives me an idea. I head to his closet, which is full of fancy business clothes, and select a pale blue dress shirt. I hang it up in my room before continuing my search for Julian.
I find him in his home office, reading a report.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, as though I’ve caught him doing something truly awful.
He looks at me sheepishly. “I ran out of things to do.”
I pull the report out of his hand and sit on his lap. “Do you want me to call your parents? Tell them you’re working on your week off? Or should I call Vince and ask him to drag you to a crack-filled sex dungeon?”
He chuckles as he wraps his arms around me, and then his lips are on mine.
“Mm,” he says. “I think you should punish me instead.”
“What should I do?”
“You’re the one doing the punishing. It’s your choice.”
I take his mouth again and slide my tongue against his. He moans low in his throat. It’s amazing, this power I have with him. I slip my hand under his polo shirt and scrape my nails over his abs, which elicits another moan.
“Courtney,” he murmurs.
I squirm on his lap as I kiss him, and his erection presses between my legs. I don’t need to hold myself back. I can take him inside me tonight and feel what I haven’t felt in years.
The thought freaks me out.
I’d totally planned to do this today, but I’ve only had sex a handful of times in the past ten years, and although Julian isn’t a partying womanizer like his brother, I’m sure there’s no shortage of women who want to sleep with him. Doubtless he’s had lots of sex with lots of beautiful women who know how to please a man. I’m not jealous, not exactly; I’m just suddenly very self-conscious.
I know he wants me, yet I’m afraid I’ll disappoint him. Not so much because I’m hardly a model underneath my clothes, but because I’m not very experienced.
I break the kiss and lean back. “Let’s go out, away from the temptation of work.”
“To my office at Fong Investments?” Julian asks.
I laugh.
“It’s very private and soundproof.” He raises his eyebrows. “Just saying.”
I push him playfully as I get to my feet. “No, we’re going drinking.”
After a couple cocktails and a steak dinner—my God, I’m going to gain so much weight—we return home and head to our separate bedrooms. I take off my clothes, except for my underwear, and put on the shirt I stole from his closet earlier. I don’t have any nice lingerie, but there’s something sexy about a woman wearing a man’s dress shirt, isn’t there? The sleeves are long, and the bottom of the shirt falls midway down my thighs, but the shirt isn’t huge on me otherwise—I’m not a slender woman. That’s okay. I still look sexy, right? I can strut into his room and climb into his bed and...
I pull off the shirt.
No, I can’t do this.
* * *
Wednesday at work, I’m practically useless. I can’t stop thinking about what would have happened if I hadn’t lost my nerve, if I’d gone to Julian’s bedroom last night.
You would have disappointed him, says a little voice in my head.
Fuck that little voice. We would have had spectacular sex, and he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands off me.
Yes, I’m a bit scared, but I can’t keep listening to that fear.
I’m going to create some endorphins, and nobody’s going to stop me.
After work, Julian and I walk by the lake and wander through the Music Garden. Then he makes me lamb chops for dinner before we binge-watch Stranger Things. I’m horrified that he’s never seen it and that he’s never watched more than two episodes of a show in a row. We say goodnight to each other after three episodes, but in my head, it’s goodnight for now.
I go to my room and undress. With shaking hands, I put on his blue shirt again and button it up. Then I tiptoe to his bedroom, as though I’m doing something illicit and don’t want to be caught. But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking some pleasure for myself.
I deserve it.
My heart beats quickly as I approach Julian’s bedroom. I knock on the door, then immediately open it and let myself in.
“Hey,” I say, standing just inside the door.
He’s reading in bed, head propped up on a few pillows, and he’s wearing boxers and a plain white T-shirt. He’s gorgeous.
He looks me up and down. “You’re not wearing pants.”
“I’m not wearing pants.”
“And you’re wearing my shirt.”
“I thought it would look—”
“Sexy.” He pauses. “It’s very sexy.”
My heart is still hammering, a combination of excitement and fear.
He puts his novel on the bedside table, his gaze never leaving me. The air between us practically crackles.
“Come here.” He pats the mattress.
I go and sit on the edge of the bed.
“You told me you couldn’t do this,” he says.
“I changed my mind. I want that fling. But I have to tell you something.” I swallow and fiddle with the collar of the shirt. “I haven’t had sex in three years. Actually, I’ve had very little sex in the past ten years. So, if it seems like I don’t know what I’m doing, it’s because I’m horribly out of practice.”
“Shh.” He presses a finger to my lips. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take good care of you tonight.” He rolls me onto my back, and I melt into the pillows. “Let me take care of you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.