“Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head. “Not right now.” He leans in, breathes against the skin of my neck. “Nothing hurts right now. I was going to ask if you wanted to go—

“Yes, to bed. That’s where I want to go.”

He leans back to look at me, and this time when he swoonshes I lift my hand to his face and set my thumb to that curving line on his cheek, the one I know, I know I’ll be able to draw later.

“I’m trying it your way,” I breathe, moving my thumb so I can lean in and press my mouth to that curve, so I can mimic it with my body, shaping myself to him. “Direct.”

“I like it.” He moves to pull me away from the wall; then he wraps his arms around my waist, lifts me off my feet, and carries me into his bedroom, never taking his mouth from mine.

And at first—oh, at first, I like it, too. I like it so much that I’m half-frantic with it. I don’t take in any details of the space he’s brought me to, because my eyes are busy on the parts of his body I reveal as I strip off his clothes—his stomach flat and ridged with muscle, a ladder of gorgeous, organized strength leading up to the heaven of his broad, smooth chest, broader even still by the way the muscles of his swimmer’s back fan out. I spread my hands over his shoulders, feel the textures of his skin with a sort of buzzing electricity in my fingertips; I hear the way Reid’s breath catches and quickens when I lean in to taste the clean-smelling skin of his neck. I’m so direct I can hardly wait, pulling him toward me as I back my way to the bed, barely pausing to let him get his hands on the hem of my dress, annoyed when getting it over my head means we have to stop kissing, the only solace the way Reid’s hands feel on new parts of my bare skin—my waist, my rib cage, my shoulder blades. I reach behind me and unclasp my bra, delighting in the noise of pleasure Reid makes, the reverent, desperate way he whispers, “Jesus,” when I lie back on his bed.

But then—with our clothes mostly off and him on top of me, with my hips moving up in small, rhythmic pulses against the hard length between his legs—I suddenly feel a rolling, unwelcome crest of nervousness, a hiccup in my newfound directness that makes the rhythm break awkwardly, a stutter-stop I hope he doesn’t notice. It’s so good with him already, nothing I’ve ever felt with anyone else, his heat and the way he kisses me soft but holds me strong.

But it’s started good before, and then I—