I scoot down the bed, standing at the foot of it. I pull on his hand and he doesn’t resist. He sits up, and now I’m facing him, looking down at him. I take a step back, pulling my shirt over my head, tossing it on the heap of discarded pajamas. Next, my bra.

Reid’s breath catches as he watches me.

“What are the rules?” he says, his voice rough.

I undo the button on my jeans. “Sit,” I say, nodding toward the carpeted floor.

He stands first, pulling off his shirt. I see the bulge in his jeans, and I wonder if he’s not going to play by the rules. I wonder if he’s going to walk forward, if he’s going to press me against the door at my back. Honestly, that would be fine, too—I’ve already learned, in the shower last week, that Reid does good work standing up—but I want to be in charge of this game.

After a beat, he follows my directions.

I slide my jeans and underwear down my legs.

“The game is we stay quiet,” I whisper, stepping in the space between his stretched-out legs. “We don’t make a sound. We don’t say anything.”

Anything like I love you.

Anything like Stay.

I lower myself onto him, straddling his lap, reaching between us to unbutton his jeans, to slide down his zipper. I watch him the whole time, and he’s clenched his mouth shut, the muscles on either side of his jaw ticking in concentration. He’s already playing.

He won’t say a word.

He lifts his hips and I lean forward, my hands going to the edge of the bed to steady myself while he shoves down his jeans, pulls a condom from his wallet. I take it from him, tearing it open and fitting it over his length, and he tips his head back, closing his eyes and clenching his fists when I stroke him once. When I release him, he moves his hands, one settling at my waist to keep me raised above him, one moving between my thighs to touch me in the way that gets me wet, that gets me close.

But I stop him, pulling his hand away, keeping it locked with mine. I look down at him and shake my head. Then I move my other hand and stroke him again, once, before lowering myself onto him, a slow stretch that would’ve gone easier had I let him keep touching me. But I want it, this stretch, this patient accommodation my body has to make to his. I like how much work it takes to stay quiet; I like the silent signs we have to send each other—a hand I rest on his shoulder to tell him I need to go slow, a hand he moves to my lower back, urging me to tip forward for a better angle.