She tried to lay herself out on him, mashing her breasts against his chest both because it felt good and because he seemed to really like her breasts, which was nice because they were definitely not Hollywood breasts. If she had been the kind of person who was insecure about her body, the smallness of her breasts might have gotten to her. And if she had been that kind of person, Max and his focus on them, on her pleasure as if it were his single abiding imperative, would have cured her of that.

He wasn’t letting her stretch out on him, though. He resisted, pushing her so she was upright again, but straddling him. “Get up here,” he said, almost peevishly, pointing to his mouth.

“What do you . . . oh.” Oh. She wasn’t the type to embarrass easily, but she could feel her cheeks heating. She could feel her core heating, too.

“Now you’re getting it.” He swatted her butt. “Scoot this pretty bottom up here and sit on my face.”

“Oh my god.” She almost came from those words alone.

She was learning that in the bedroom, Max was direct, guileless, and generous. She wasn’t sure why that should be surprising. He was like that in life, too. But he had a way of stating things so directly. It wasn’t dirty talk in the traditional sense. His point wasn’t to get her off—at least she didn’t think it was. And he was bossy, but not in the dominant sense. He would never push her to do anything she didn’t want to. She couldn’t imagine anything he would suggest that would fall into that category, anyway. It was like he knew, always, what would feel good, what was optimal in any scenario, and announced his intention to do that thing.

It sounded so simple when she thought about it like that.

“Or don’t,” he said with a smile, and started to sit up. Here was a case in point—he thought she wasn’t into what he’d suggested, and he was regrouping.

“Hang on.” She pressed her palm against his chest and pushed him back down. “Give me a second.”

“What? You have to think about it?”

“No. I just have never done it . . . quite like this before.”

“Well, listen,” he said with mock sternness. “I’m being resourceful. You’ve told me, and I have observed, that you like being on top.” He held up his thumb and pointed to it with the opposite index finger, like he was making a visual list. “Happily, I also like you being on top.”

“You like everything,” she said, trying to swat the thumb he was still holding up.