“What did I say the first time I saw you naked?” he asked.
My foot nearly slipped from the accelerator.
“What brought that on?”
“You told me I could ask anything.”
“I was feeling recklessly generous.”
“So?”
The memory came with painful clarity.
The sail loft. The old green task lamp throwing muted light over timber and canvas. Weeks of circling one another until desire finally outweighed caution. Noah had arrived at that moment armed with confidence, provocation, and more bravado than any man should reasonably possess.
Then I had removed my shirt.
He had simply stared.
Long enough for me to wonder whether I had misunderstood the entire evening.
“You asked whether I’d been constructed proportionally.”
Noah laughed.
The sound filled the car, bright and sudden.
“I said that?”
“You said the rest of me had created certain expectations, but you hadn’t anticipated consistent engineering.”
His laughter deepened until he pressed a hand to his ribs.
“That is appalling.”
“It was flattering in context.”
“What did I do after insulting your architecture?”
“You touched me.”
“Immediately?”
“No. You asked first.”
The laughter faded into something softer.
“I asked permission?”
“You did.”
He looked through the rain-streaked window.
“I’m glad.”
“So was I.”
“Was I frightened?”
