My palm finds the outline of his erection, feeling the tremor in his muscles, the purchase as he presses against me, looking for more contact.

“Conor? I haven’t, either.”

“What?”

“Been with anyone else. Since Edinburgh.”

He goes very still. Closes his eyes. “Shit,” he breathes. “I’m not going to—I think I’ve run out.”

“What?”

“Last night.”

“Run out of…?”

“Self-control.”

I smile. Cotton rustles as I slide my hand in his boxer briefs.

“Jesus.” He grips my wrist, stills it, but doesn’t move it away. “Were you serious about being on birth control?”

I take his free hand with mine and lift it until he can feel the implant in my arm. “Okay. Shit, okay. Can I—I’m skeptical of my ability to pull out—”

“Yes. You can.”

He groans, lowers the front of his underwear until it’s hooked behind his balls, and then—it’s not smooth, but he does end up inside me, and I can’t breathe. This time it’s on our sides, my knee bent and pulled up high against his flank, and I can’t control anything about this, not the angle—not quite right—nor the depth—fucking absurd—and I have to make myself inhale, air in and air out, until I feel my insides softening around him.

“Okay?” he asks, sounding a little ruined, a tinge of panic in his eyes. He digs in deeper. Hits a wall. Groans when the pleasure-pain of it makes me clench around him.

Okay, I say, except no sound comes out.

“Christ. Jesus Christ, Maya, I—If I…” He exhales. A silent, self-pitying, humorous laugh. “Will you trust me? I…”

I have no idea what he means. I’m still trying to learn how to exist with him inside me. “Yes. I trust you, I—Oh.”

My ass cheek is cradled in the palm of his hand, and he moves me against him. I close my eyes and give myself up to it—being ground onto his cock like I’m an extension of his body, shallow strokes, rubbing against a really good spot, heat and tension coiling in my belly, and—

“Maya,” he breathes, “look me in the eye when you’re making me come.”

My eyelids flutter open, and that does it. I feel him lose it inside me, a tightening grip, the sense of fullness. He groans, guttural, against my mouth. Locks eyes with me throughout it. Shudders. Gives in to the pleasure and lets me witness it with no shame.

It’s beautiful to see. I want Conor to do this, to show me this, to come without me, a million more times, but with one last sigh he slides back down to earth. And says, “Good. Now we can…”

His arms close around me. He’s still hard. Moves inside me slowly, more easily. More kisses, lingering. My thigh trembles as he hooks it over his elbow, a hint of strain to my hips, but the warmth tingles up my nerve endings again, and he’s touching my tits, and I’m laughing even as the air rushes out of my lungs. “That was so rude, Conor.”