create until nothing is left to create

Nervous

"Rumor has it," he says one evening, "I make you nervous."

You drop your phone into your lap and lift your gaze to him. "Where did you hear that?"

"Poor phrasing," he corrects, his curls bouncing as he shakes his head. "I assumed."

You squirm on the couch, uncrossing your legs and crossing them back the other way. He's not wrong. It would take more than two hands to count the number of times you found yourself unusually short of breath when his kisses became rougher, or the number of times you squeezed his hands tightly to keep them from roaming over your body, and you vividly remember each time you slid off of his lap after making out for an hour, preventing him from going any further.

Joe rests his hand over yours, and you shiver. "Why are you nervous about having sex?"

Your shoulders come up as you cringe, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth as your toes curl inside your socks. "I don't know," you croak. "I've never done it before, and I don't know whether I'm ready or if my expectations are too high or too low, or if I even know what to do." You purse your lips after speaking.

"There are awkward moments," says Joe, bestowing his wisdom upon you. You don't know how many partners he's had before you came along, but it's intimidating no matter the number. "But nothing you'll look back on with a sour taste in your mouth. And knowing what to do will come naturally to you."

Still, you shake your head. "How do I know when I'm ready? Just the thought of it makes me anxious. I don't want to do something I'll regret because I wasn't ready yet."

His brows furrow. "You think you'll regret having sex with me?"

"No," you groan, cringing a second time. "Not for that reason; not because it's you. I just--" You cut yourself off and bite your tongue. You have a terrible habit of using that word, and it always downplays your concerns.

"Hey," Joe interjects, squeezing your hand, "nothing else is going to happen until you're one hundred percent sure you want it. I'd never do anything without your explicit consent, you know that?"

You turn to the side and bury your face in his neck. "I know," you mutter wetly, tears building at the corners of your eyes. The knot in your stomach loosens, and you breathe in deeply. "I trust you. I was only afraid of moving too fast. I couldn't rush into it and risk having mixed feelings; you're too important to me."

He wraps his arms around you. "We'll go as slow as you want," he whispers. "Take your time."

Ironically, you don't. Opening up to him about your fears showed you how silly many of them were, how much you were overthinking, and how you really, really want this. Confiding in him proved to you that you trust each other. Not a single worry clouds your brain the next time you're in his lap on your bed, his hands on your waist and his tongue in your mouth. You roll your shoulders back, the tension subsiding, and slide your hands underneath his sweater to feel his stomach. He separates his mouth from yours and stares up into your eyes, your pupils dilated, your expression eager and mesmerized.

"I think it's time for bed," he rasps. His voice is pitched low, but he fights his urges and leans away from you when you attempt to kiss him. You smile and press your lips to his jaw, working your way along the sharp line and moving without hesitation to his neck. He shudders, his fingernails digging into your skin where he's holding your waist, and asks, "Honey, what are you doing?"

You bite gently at the front of his throat, and he stifles a groan. Grinning, you ask, "What do you think I'm doing?"

One of Joe's hands leaves your waist, and he threads his fingers through your hair and drags your head back, his eyes locking onto yours. "Are you sure?" he stutters.

"Yes," you breathe, nodding for emphasis and giggling when his eyes light up, and you grip the hem of your shirt with both hands and pull it over your head.