His fingers weave through my hair and his body wedges deliciously against mine, but I want more. I move more urgently against him; the way his hips roll against mine makes me think he wants me, too. I feel his warm hand slip under the edge of my silky underwear and my breath catches. I fumble for his waistband, too.

“I want you so badly,” he says, his voice low.

“Should I grab a condom?” I ask.

“If you want to later,” he says, moving down my body toward the end of the bed.

The sensation of his tongue against me makes me feel like I’m glowing. The candlelight, the music—it all goes hazy. And eventually, when it’s time to grab a condom, my fingers shake too badly to rip open the packet. I laugh and hand it to him. He manages better than I do.

Sex with Raj feels seamless, like the most obvious thing in the world. I forget why we haven’t done this a million times before. He squeezes my ass in a way that makes me moan; his breath grows ragged as his motions turn more fervent. When he finishes, he collapses with his forehead buried in my shoulder. I can feel his pulse pounding against my chest. He rolls over and scoops his arm around my body so there’s plenty of room for me to curl up next to him. I relax against his torso and appreciate how easy and comfortable it is.

After a moment, I mumble into his chest, “That was amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” he replies, stroking my hair.

“No, I mean it,” I say.

He laughs lightly, still catching his breath. “I do, too.”

“It’d suck if after all this buildup, we were terrible together,” I say.

“I don’t think that would even be possible,” he says.

If I were a different sort of person—a calmer sort of person—this would be the moment I drift blissfully into slumber in my new, hot boyfriend’s arms with nary a worry. But, of course, that’s not who I am. My mind whirs with visions and questions. I can’t help but imagine Raj looking so sharp and handsome in a tux at the Wythe Hotel next Saturday. I hate that I can picture him stomping on the napkin-wrapped glass under the canopy of the chuppah—the one Jewish wedding tradition that always makes me cry. I wonder if the trajectory of our evening together has swayed him toward or against showing up for me in that ridiculously grand way. But as magical as tonight has been, I’m not sure it’s enough. I’m not sure anything could be enough.