“I missed you,” he said, holding me to him, palm smoothing my hair. “I don’t like waking up without you here, especially with the headache I had this morning.” He pulled back and placed a hand on either side of my face, examining me. “God, that had to have been a tough run.”

“Max is lucky I didn’t hurl on him,” I said, turning my head to place a kiss against his palm, and then up, against the back of his ring. “I never want to drink again. I’m pretty terrible at it.”

“You are pretty terrible at it,” he agreed, watching me. “But you’re okay now?”

“Absolutely okay,” I said. “Very”—kiss—“very”—kiss—“okay.” He sucked in a small breath when I pressed my lips to his wrist, chastely at first, then wetter, sucking, opening my mouth to feel his pulse against my tongue.

His reaction came in the form of another sharp inhale, and my eyes flickered up to his.

“Yeah?” he said, and I dragged my teeth along his skin, pressed down until his brows lifted a little with the pain. “Right here?”

I nodded, stepping back and lifting my shirt up and over my head. His eyes followed the movement and I watched as his features relaxed, every last bit of tension leaving his face.

“Right here,” I said.

We each knew what the other liked. Will liked it to be a little rough sometimes, and I liked to be guided, told where he wanted me and what he wanted me to do.

Will gripped his shirt at the back of his neck and pulled it off, tossing it absently to the couch. “Turn around then,” he said, motioning with his finger.

I did what he asked, turning to see his worn leather chair just behind me. I loved that chair, and so did Will. Loved to curl up in it while I worked, my legs tucked underneath me and my laptop balanced on the arm. I loved when Will sat in this chair and I sat in the other and we were both quiet, no words needed as we read or watched TV. And I especially loved when he would let me climb into his lap, burrow my way into whatever blanket he was using, and watch a movie. And despite having had sex on almost every piece of furniture we owned, we’d never done it there, on one of his favorite possessions—the chair he’d taken with him from home to home throughout his adult years.

I took a step forward. “Like this?” I asked, sinking into the seat, knees pressed to the cushion and facing away from him.