“Shit, Macy, I’m . . . this is insane. Good insane. You feel insane under me.”

I laughed because Elliot’s rare incoherence was strangely reassuring, and then his lips were on my mouth, swallowing my laugh and making it his, his tongue slipping over mine as his hand cupped my breast, squeezed, our sounds muffled by the way we could barely bring ourselves up for air.

His fingers went lower again, slipping over my ribs, across my navel, below the cotton to exactly where I needed them, and he made a strangled sound at the same time that I ground out something unintelligible. His hips shifted over me, seeking the same rhythm as his fingertips gliding across my skin.

In a flash he was moving down, tugging my underwear off, and kissing my belly, hips, and then lower, almost wild with the want that mirrored mine. He shook below me, between my thighs, shoulders trembling under my grip, and I missed his weight on top but whatever he had decided to do with his mouth distracted me from any other coherent thought. It was warm soft suction, hands on my legs, resisting the way they seemed to want to close around his head and the mad sensation of tongue and lips and his gasps of air. He was doing that thing I’d barely let myself imagine.

He moved back up when I started gasping, biting and kissing along my skin, wilder than I would have ever imagined, but then, in the moment, I realized it could never be any other way with us.

“Sorry,” he said. “I wanted to keep going but—” He closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip and groaning as if he was trying to keep himself together.

“It’s okay, come here.” I wanted his weight on me. I wanted to see him hovering over my body and then burn the image into my brain.

“I seriously thought I was going to come,” he added with a laugh against my lips, his mouth still wet from me, and with an urgency behind his touch that made me a little wild.

I pushed ineffectually at his belt and then my fingers remembered function, pulling through loops and undoing one fascinating button at a time, and then my hands felt the bare skin of his flat stomach, his narrow hips, the soft hair on the backs of his thighs as I worked his pants down around his knees.

He was heavy on me, hard and thick against my hip, and I arched to him, wanting to rub across him there.

“I want to,” I began, reaching for him and finding it. My mind turned to mush at the sound he made, at the feeling of him, so warm and hard in my hand. “Do you want to?”

“Have sex?” he asked, head bobbing in a frantic nod, eyes rapt. “Yes. Yes. I do. I do, I do, I do, Macy, but fuck, but I don’t have any protection.”

“Pill,” I gasped as he shifted and I felt him slide across my thigh. Smooth and soft skin over something not at all soft.