His words stoke a fire in the pit of my stomach, building it up to an almost unbearable level. My hands grip the back of the chair for leverage as I move faster and a little bit harder. Our bodies soon turn slick with sweat and his hand shifts from my chest to my center that’s already starting to flutter. I keep my pace as his fingers go right where I need them, rubbing and pressing, and blood roars in my ears as I cry out. Ryan’s free hand flies to the back of my neck and pulls me down, kissing me deeply and swallowing my every whimper. He thrusts himself up into me once, twice, three more times until he’s the one moaning into my mouth, his eyes clenching shut as his arms tighten around me to keep us pinned in place.

We float along in silence after that as we struggle to recover. He leans back to look at me, his hair tousled and his breathing still heavy. I have the primitive urge to keep him this way for the foreseeable future.

“I’m never going to stop wanting this,” he says. I can feel his heart pounding between us as we stay locked together. “It’s not like this with anyone else.”

I let go of the back of the chair to drape my arms around his neck. “No,” I agree. “Not for me either.”

“What do you think that means?”

We search each other’s eyes for the answer until I lean down, hiding my face in the curve of his shoulder. “I wish I knew,” I answer honestly. “I really wish I knew.”

15

The next morning, we’re in my bedroom after gorging on a breakfast of whole wheat toast, scrambled eggs and non-incinerated bacon. Ryan got me a scone but I’m saving it for later. He’s sitting back against the headboard on the bed now, wearing boxers and nothing else as I sport one of his oversize T-shirts with a sweatshirt on top. I’m staging a novel for Instagram, a contemporary romance with soft but striking cover art. So far, I have the book lying on my windowsill and framed with twinkle lights. My curtains run along the edge of the photo and vintage book pages that I ordered online are scattered underneath. I look through the camera on my phone to check the lighting but there’s still too much empty space.

“Are you excited for the rehearsal dinner tonight?” I ask, shifting around to check the room for something else to add to the picture.

“I guess,” Ryan says, flipping on the TV. “I never understood the purpose of rehearsal dinners. I want to meet the first person who said, ‘You know what, I’m nervous about this whole wedding dinner situation—we better do a walk-through the night before.’”