I caught it gently.
“You’re exhausted.”
“I still want to.”
“Why?”
His expression became unexpectedly serious.
“Because I want you.”
I searched his face.
There was no obligation there. No panic that he had taken something without giving an equivalent in return.
Only desire surviving through fatigue.
I placed his hand over me.
“Slowly.”
He touched me.
His grip was warm and still slightly unsteady from his own pleasure. I kissed him as he moved his hand, keeping the rhythm easy.
Noah watched my face.
He always did now.
As if every change in my expression taught him something about us that memory could no longer provide.
When I came, I gasped his name against his mouth.
His hand held me through the last pulse, neither retreating nor hurrying me.
Afterward, he smiled.
Sleepy.
Satisfied.
“There.”
“Thank you.”
“That was very formal.”
“I’ll submit a written evaluation.”
“Five stars?”
“Premature.”
He made a wounded sound.
I cleaned us both with a warm cloth.
Noah lay beneath the quilt, watching the green bar of light beneath the bedroom door.
