Let her find my shirt hem, and let her help me shrug out of it. I match her, tugging the pale green scrub top off, tossing it into her hamper. Her turn. She fiddles blindly with my belt buckle, her body angled away from mine to make room for her hands, while her shoulders rest against my chest and her head leans on my shoulder, face turned to my neck, lips nipping and kissing at my throat.

While she fumbles with my belt buckle, freeing it and then working on the fly of my jeans, I caress her torso. Her taut flat belly, her sides, her ribcage and diaphragm. The elastic of her sports bra. I lift that up, off it goes I know not where. Cup her breasts, whisper murmurs of relief as I fill my hands with her flesh, then moan with need as she shoves at my jeans, my underwear. I help her, I kick out of them. I untie her scrub bottom, and she makes quick work of shucking out of them and her underwear.

We’re naked together.

This is only part one. She wants everything. The shower, the bed, handcuffs, kisses, bitten shoulders, our walls echoing with screams.

But first.

Oh, first.

This.

I dip at the knees. She grasps me. Feeds me into her, and I stand up, fill her. She whimpers my name—Adrian, oh god, Adrian—and I cup her breasts in one hand, fondling each slight, small, round peak. With my other, I touch her, the way she loves and needs to be touched. She’s tense. She needs this. She’ll never take it for herself while I’m gone.

I move slowly, dipping at the knees and rising again, to fill her, to plunge. Her kisses rake along my jaw, her hand clutching at my cheek, her other hand awkwardly and clumsily scrabbling at my buttocks, helping and encouraging my movements.

We haven’t said a word of greeting.

None is needed.

Just this. Hands reacquainting with beloved flesh, with the curves in which I delight, the hard angles of mine which she treasures.

I groan as I glory in the way she squeezes around me, in the way she gasps, in the way her knees forget to stay locked as I bring her to climax. Her eyes are open, as are mine. Watching us.

We can see where we’re joined. She’s leaning backward, into me, and I’m lifting. Circling her softness as she rises to the moment, moans becoming ragged, moans becoming my name chanted.

She comes.

I lift her in my arms—she’s limp and boneless, for the moment.

“The water,” she whispers.

“I’ve got it.”

I settle her on the bed. Go back to the bathroom, shut off the shower; we won’t be needing that for a while.