She reached her hand out to him, for him, needing him. And as she’d known he would be, he was there immediately. Palm to palm, fingers threaded and then, yes, his mouth on hers. John put one knee on the edge of the bed and leaned over her, taking deep draughts of her mouth. He tasted her fully, slowly, as if they had all the time in the universe, as if the light weren’t changing that very moment, as if the world weren’t marching on all around them, as if the two of them weren’t changing and growing and aging even as they clutched at one another, as if this moment had its own set of orbiting planets, its own gravitational force, its own history.

He shifted his weight and sheltered her, the bed dipping as he planted a hand and took even more from her mouth. His tongue was both soft and overbearing at once and Mary reveled in it, how perfectly John that combination was. Sweet and obliviously intense. He tasted delicious, like toothpaste and fresh coffee and how much he wanted her. She felt his breath fan out over her cheek and it wasn’t steady.

She thought of how he looked from afar, broad shoulders, hands in pockets, black and white. Steady. Substantial. Unshakable. But his hand was trembling as he laid it over her hip and stomach. His fingers shook, just slightly, as he slid them down and then back up, catching under the bottom hem of her shirt, under fabric, to touch her bare skin. His fingers flexed at the dip of her waist, pressing into her softness, testing the line between her body and the rest of the world. The edges of her.

He leaned back, one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, and his eyes were bleary as his pupils grew and shrank. He gripped the bottom of her shirt in both hands and determinedly pulled it up. She’d thought he’d yank it right off, but halfway there, he made a strangled noise and fell down on her again, his mouth opening against her hip bone, his stubble rubbing at her navel, his forehead planting at the V of her ribs.

She let out a half laugh, half groan because joy was rising in her as fast as her arousal was. She grabbed her own shirt and yanked it off, and John looked dazed when he tipped his head and saw her nothing-special bra. Beige colored, because her shirt was white and she’d wanted it to be invisible. Even so, his nostrils flared like she’d just revealed the finest lingerie. He gripped her ribs with one hand and yanked at her bra strap with his teeth.

She laughed fully now. “What is it with you and bra straps?”