I looked at the plug. Looked at him. His expression was open and slightly defiant.
"Consumer research. Comparison shopping. I read a guide."
"A guide."
"One had diagrams. I took notes."
"Heath."
"If you're about to tell me this is too fast—"
"I'm about to tell you that's a very responsible color choice."
He laughed, short, surprised. "It matched the sheets."
"The sheets are gray."
"Navy complements gray. I don't make the rules."
I pulled him in by the front of his shirt. Kissed the laugh off his mouth. He pushed my jacket off my shoulders while I worked his buttons.
It was different from our first times when it was all tentative exploration. Different from the reconciliation weekswhen we moved at a slow and deliberate pace.This was two people who knew each other's bodies well enough to skip the preamble.
He unhooked my belt with one hand while kissing my neck.
"You practiced that," I said.
"On my belt. Repeatedly. I have a process."
"You have a process for undressing me?"
"I have a process for everything." His teeth grazed my collarbone. "You like it."
I did. Every process in my life had been about containment. Heath’s were about getting me off.
We fell onto the bed. He caught his weight on one arm and used the other to shove the decorative pillow onto the floor.
"I hate that pillow," he said, mouth against my shoulder.
"You own one throw pillow."
"And I hate it. Maggie sent it. It saysLive Laugh Lace Up."
"That's objectively terrible."
"I know. I can never throw it away."
He kissed down my chest. Unhurried. He knew where to slow down. He'd learned me through observation and repetition and knew what made my breathing change and the exact pressure along the inside of my hip that made rational thought difficult.
His lips reached my waistband. He looked up. Eyes steady.
"I want to try something tonight," he said. Quiet. No bravado. "I want to be inside you."
My breath caught. I'd thought about it in the dark, in hotel rooms, and on planes while Heath slept beside me. Set it asidethe way I set aside everything that required me to stop narrating my life and actually inhabit it.
"Yeah," I said. "I want that."
He exhaled. Relief and desire braided together. "The idea is we start slow. Work up to it."
