Sasha growled out some filthy, triumphant word and lifted himself on his palms to hammer her in earnest. Iris grabbed fistfuls of grass. She shut her eyes against the jealous fury of the sun in Sasha’s hair. She thought of random things, like flashes from another life—bacon frying, a fiery October maple, racehorses—oh, Sasha’s father, not random at all—it’s too much, too hard, too much, too deep, too much—sweat dropped on her face—too much—how does he do it, how does he keep going—she couldn’t stand another second—the world went tiny and gigantic, both at once—short, desperate strokes, almost there—almost—then smash—finally—and Iris hollered her rapture as loud as she wanted because only the sun and stones and Sasha could hear her—how divine.

A few more beats, and Sasha shuddered and arched his back and let out a soft howl. The crisis died woozily away and Iris’s bones went slack. She heard the stream again, giggling at them. She wanted to giggle, too. Sasha swore and rolled off, panting.

“What’s wrong? I thought that was wonderful.”

“I meant to pull out, that’s all. I don’t have a rubber on.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care if it happens. Do you?”

“It would be inconvenient.”

“Well, it didn’t happen the first time, did it? I think it would be wonderful.”

Sasha stuffed himself back inside his trousers and buttoned them. “You do realize there’s a war going on out there, don’t you?”

She rolled on her side and ran her finger along the bridge of his nose. “But do you care, or not?”

“I don’t want to put you in any kind of position, that’s all.”

“I’d say you’ve already put me in all kinds of positions, and I’ve enjoyed them very much.”

Sasha tried and failed to suppress a laugh. “Fair enough.”

“What about your position, though? That’s what I’m getting at. What would you think, if it happens? Would you want me to get rid of it?”

Finally he turned his head and looked at her. His face radiated that gleaming flush she knew so well. True, he wore a rubber most of the time, but not every single time, and sometimes when he wasn’t wearing a rubber he didn’t—or couldn’t—pull out. So Iris wanted to pin him down. She wanted to hear this from his own mouth, in case it did happen. Maybe today, who knew. Maybe it already had happened. What about last week, in the cloakroom of the British ambassador’s residence? What a messy occasion that was, but these mistakes would occur when you didn’t plan ahead. Just now, for example.

Iris patted his cheek, not quite a slap. A few blades of grass fell away from her fingers. “Well? What do you say to that?”