“No...” He pulls my shoulders so I’m sitting upright, and I feel the press of him, still hard, still inside me. “Baby, we didn’t use anything.” His face is so close to mine, his eyes searching and anxious. “I don’t have a condom on.”

I groan and start to climb off him but then stop, reconsidering our attire. I really don’t want to Monica Lewinsky it into the party with this blue dress. “Can you grab me a tissue from the glove compartment?”

He nods, reaching around me, and somehow manages to retrieve one. It’s such a real moment, and in such stark contrast to the wild fucking of a minute ago, that I feel a little light-headed. Just as I move to pull away, he reaches for me, touching two fingers to my jaw and whispering, “Shh, wait, wait, wait. Come here.”

I lean in, closing my eyes and giving in to the sensation of melting into him as he groans, digging his hand into my hair to hold me close. His tongue slides against mine, gentler now. My heart is slamming into my breastbone from exertion, and from the teasing adrenaline of my impending panic.

“Are you okay?” he says against my mouth.

I nod. “I can’t believe we did that.”

“Me, either.”

“I guess we should go clean up before the party.”

We adjust our clothes and stumble out of the car. Back at the front door, he pulls his keys from his pocket, unable to meet my eyes when he quietly asks, “Are you on the pill?”

“No.” I try to do the math to figure out where I am in my cycle—I think I’m supposed to get my period in a matter of days—but I don’t want to linger on the potential implications of the unprotected sex we just had. I want to stay in the happy, jelly-limbed place of bliss and my newfound admission that I’m totally freaking in love with Finn Roberts.

“It’ll be fine,” I tell him, with absolutely no proof whatsoever. It just feels good to say it, and as soon as I do, I feel sure of it. It will be fine! Everything will be fine!

He nods and walks inside, leading me down the hall to the small bathroom next to the room he’s been staying in. I turn and look through the open bedroom door as he stops and grabs a washcloth from the hall closet. His suitcase is open on the bed, filled with neatly folded clothes.

“You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” he says. And then, “Well, probably not. I don’t know.” He nods toward the bathroom, indicating I lead us inside.

Turning on the hot faucet, he holds his hand underneath until the water heats, and then wets the cloth. “Come here.”