“There’s a French quote by Molière. Vivre sans aimer n’est pas proprement vivre.”

“What does it mean?”

I trace a circle on her hip as I translate. “To live without loving is to not really live.” My eyes capture hers. “So you see why this is new for me too, faire l’amour…to make love.”

She falls quiet then, looking down on me. It’s not pity in her gaze, but sincerity.

She sits atop me, her legs spread across my stomach, and I want her so bad I shake with it. But I don’t rush her. I run my fingers up the length of her arms and back down, then I wrap my hands around her biceps and gently pull her until she’s lying flat on top of me, her hair tumbling down onto the side of my face. I’m enveloped in her scent, and it could be enough, just this. My arms wrap around her back, and we stay like that until I sense she’s comfortable enough to continue. Her hand works between our bodies, and her fingers skim the tip of my length again.

It feels important for her to at least initiate, but I’m not shy about taking over. I’ll lead her tonight as I know she wants me to. The ease of letting a lover guide you is a gift I want to give her.

Protection is at the forefront of my mind. I go to reach for a condom in my side table, but her hand captures my forearm and she shakes her head.

“Could we not?”

“Are you on birth control?”

“No.”

“And you’re aware of the implications…”

She smiles. “I’m aware.”

The gravity of that settles over me. Does it matter if we don’t use anything? Not if we’re both in agreement. Not if we both want the same thing.

I roll us so she’s lying flat against my bed and I don’t get sidetracked by the sight of her. Later tonight, tomorrow morning, the day after, I’ll have her lie here and I’ll beg her not to move so I can get my fill, but tonight my hands roam, toying with her breasts and working up her desire again until she’s a writhing needy mess. God, I love it.

I’d go down on her again, but I know she’d protest. Instead, I part her legs and slip my hand between them, ensuring she’s ready.

She nods and I press my fingers inside her, trying to ease some of what will come next. It won’t be comfortable at first, she knows. She reassures me as I line us up, and I press another kiss to her lips. I’m lying over her, resting my weight on my elbows, whispering in her ear.

“Ça va, petite souris. Relax.”

I feel her tense as I press inside her, thrusting until I’m completely seated.

Her entire body goes rigid with the pain.

I hate it. I would take it from her if I could.

“It’s done. It’s done,” I reassure her, brushing her hair back off her face and pressing featherlight kisses across her cheeks and chin and neck, soothing her as I hold perfectly still.