“What—fuck, this is good—what is rude?”

“Coming inside me before even telling me how pretty I am.”

I clutch the fabric of his shirt, and he laughs, too, against my mouth. Amusement, joy, shared in a single breath.

“You’re okay,” he says. His thrusts are soft and unhurried. Lazy. I could use more speed, but—this is for him. I want this to be for him. “Pretty enough, I guess.”

I bite the flesh of his shoulder hard enough to leave a print, and he chuckles.

“When I saw you in Edinburgh,” he murmurs, “I couldn’t look away. You don’t—I can’t make you understand. I don’t have the words.”

He tilts my hips in a way that has us both groaning. He’s sated. Barely moving.

“I just couldn’t conceive of it. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and the cliché of it—of being a thirty-five-year-old man developing a crush on a girl who was only twenty.” He sighs around my cheek. “I kept thinking about my father and all those women. How ridiculous it looked from the outside. I wanted none of that. But you were there, smart and self-assured and independent, but also young. And after that first night I told myself, fuck, no. Absolutely not. But I still had breakfast with you, and you turned every ordinary moment into a masterpiece.” He shifts us until I’m kneeling on top of him, my palms on the sides of his head. His hands run up my bare thighs, the place between us that’s already soaked with his come.

I think about it—those relaxed, unguarded smiles of his during the day we spent in Edinburgh. The warm surprise in his demeanor, as though that gentle happiness was unusual to him. You should have someone making you feel like that every day, I thought. I am available.

His hips thrust upward, and I let out a loud moan. I hear the breeze carry it away and bite my lower lip.

“And then you made a move, and I’d never been so turned on. I watched you sleep and kept thinking—I could wake her up. I could give her what she asked for. I could fuck her, and it would be better than what she’s had so far.” His teeth run up my throat.

I shiver. “It would have been.”

He laughs. “Older guy. Your brother’s friend. So fucking trite, isn’t it?” His strokes are easy paced, but no longer gentle. His thumb draws a circle around my clit, and that’s it. My orgasm is plain, straightforward, the product of Conor being close, the drag of his sweat-slick skin against mine, the delicious scent of his warmth. It’s good, even perfect, long pulls that hold him tighter and tighter inside me, forcing him to spill again. Above all, though, it makes sense.

I’m not sure anything but this pleasure ever did, not this clearly, not for me.

“I think we should do this a lot,” I tell him later, once I have re-mastered the art of speech. We’re on our sides again. He gathered me to his chest and doesn’t seem to want to let go.