But as soon as we’re up the steps from the Herald Square station, Reid touches me again, taking my hand and keeping me close to his side as we navigate the not-yet-crowded sidewalks all the way to his apartment building, a nondescript brick mid-rise in Murray Hill, somewhat tired on the outside but updated with bland, modern renovations in the lobby. On any other morning, on any other day, I’d ask more than twenty questions about it all: How’d you pick this? Do you know your neighbors? How long does it take you to get to work? Where’s your dry cleaner? This morning, though, my head is full of that kiss, my hand is full of Reid’s, and all I want is to finish what we started.

As soon as the door to his apartment is closing behind us, I let him know it, turning to face him, tipping my head up for another kiss, and the best thing is that he doesn’t leave any doubt that he’s been wanting it, too, that he stood beside me on that train and felt every single passing touch of my body against his. He bends, his hands in my hair, releasing all the still-fresh shampoo scent he missed so much, and the noise that comes from his chest as he kisses me is guttural, impatient.

Hot.

“You don’t want the tour?” he says when he pulls his lips from mine to take a breath, his chin ducking immediately to put his lips somewhere new, on the soft skin of my neck.

“Later I want the tour.” I gasp at the way he’s tasting me, his tongue tracing up that long column. “I’ll ask you so many questions,” I warn him.

“It’s quite boring,” he warns, kissing the corner of my mouth first, before he gives me his lips, his tongue.

“God, say that again,” I say, almost a moan, and then realize I don’t want to explain the quite thing, not when I could keep my mouth busy in other ways. “Never mind,” I murmur hastily. “Nothing about you is boring.”

He presses me against the wall by his front door, his hands at my waist and his mouth hungry on mine. We stay that way for so long, long enough that I push his jacket off his shoulders, long enough that he does the same to me, long enough that we both toe off our shoes, kicking them sloppily out of the way.

“Meg.” His voice is gruff, and all of a sudden I realize I’ve gripped the firm, ropy length of his forearms; I’m squeezing there to hold myself steady while we devour each other, and for the first time I feel a rough texture beneath one of my palms.

“Oh,” I say, pulling my hand away. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” He takes my hands in his and squeezes gently. “Touch me. Anywhere you want.”