“What, this old thing?” I laugh at my attempt at humor.

“I feel like I keep sending you mixed signals.”

I straighten, shaking my head. “Not mixed. There’s nothing mixed here. Just friends and coworkers helping each other feel good.” I shrug.

In this light she’s a study in contrasts. Dark hair and porcelain skin. Delicate nose and eyelashes, strong shoulders. She’s sharp angles, with the most vulnerable look in her eyes.

I fall too fast and too hard, and no matter what I tell myself, that will inevitably happen again. But that’s a future Sophie problem. Right now, I can’t bring myself to care.

It’s not until I drop the towel, cool air prickling my skin and pointing my nipples, that I realize I have never been naked in front of Amy before. Pantsless, yes. Shirt askew, sure. But not bare.

I place one knee on the bed and then the other, hovering over her, and for a breathless moment I forget what comes next. There’s only my heart beating so hard against my ribs that they’ll be sore tomorrow, my hands on her shoulders, her eyes so wide, so open, I could fall inside them. I’m tethered to this moment, floating above her, asking her for everything, for too much, but not having the words.

But Amy knows. She always knows. She tunnels her hands in my damp hair, giving the gentlest of tugs so I arch my back. Her lips ghost over my collarbone, leaving a trail of heat and frayed nerves in their wake. The silk of her blouse is a crumpled mess in my fist and she’s barely touched me.

“Were you hard up, Hollywood?” she asks, smiling into the swell of my breast.

I run my thumb along the sharp line of her chin and jaw, tipping her head back. “Say it,” I whisper.

“Say what?”

“My name.”

Her eyes shutter. “Sophie. Were you hard up, Sophie?”

“Don’t look so smug. You know I was.”

She wraps her lips around my nipple and tugs me closer by my thighs.

With all the strength training I do, I’m supposed to be the strong one, but Amy flips me easily, her grin far too self-satisfied. She crawls up my body, her hair falling around her face like a dark crown.

“You are very dressed,” I say.

She hums, grinning. “And you are very naked.”

“Be naked, too,” I whine. She rolls her eyes but sits back on her heels to pull her blouse over her head, her bra simple and white.

“Better?”

I grin, stupidly. One of the things I learned about myself when I started looking at women—really looking at women, letting myself feel the attraction I had suppressed for so long—was that I’m really into boobs. Big breasts, small breasts. The way they look in clothes, with bras, without bras, no clothes. I meditated on the feel of them pressed against mine, the taste of the skin between.

“You’re staring, Hollywood.”

“It’s just...” My voice sounds breathless to my own ears. “I love boobs so much.”