There was a self-portrait of Bonnie, drawn in green and pink markers, with eyes the size of saucers and a smile that took up half the page. There was a drawing of Pickles, scaled to his actual self-image. I noticed the family portrai I saw last time— her, Sabrina, Mrs. Park, and Pickles. There was no man in any of the drawings.
The shower stopped, and footsteps came down the hall.
Sabrina came into the living room.
She was naked.
Her hair was wet. She had a towel over her shoulder that she hadn't used. Her skin was flushed from the heat of the water. She was barefoot, and she stopped in the doorway between the hall and the living room.
She looked at me, and I stood up.
"Sabrina."
"Beau."
"Are you — are you sure?"
"Please. I need you."
I went to her and put my hands on her face.
I kissed her.
She was reaching for the buttons of my shirt before my mouth had fully reached hers. Her hands were shaking.
I understood.
I lifted her — both hands under her thighs — and she locked her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. I walked her down the hall, shouldered her bedroom door open, and set her down on the bed.
Her hands finished with the shirt, and it came off.
She didn't wait for the rest. She had her mouth at the side of my neck and her hands at my belt. It came undone in two seconds because I had already had a hand on the buckle.
I brought her down to the mattress, and she came up to meet me.
She pulled me on top of her — both hands at my back, the heels of her palms against my shoulder blades, her legs locking around mine.
I gave her what she needed.
I kissed her hard. One hand was at the back of her head, the other at her hip. My mouth found hers, then her neck, then her shoulder. She was making sounds against my collarbone that I hadn't heard her make before — short, sharp, and raw.
I moved inside her.
She made a sound under me each time I hit her core.
I held her hand against the pillow above her head. Her fingers laced through mine.
I moved, and she moved with me.
It wasn't romantic.
Romantic would have been slow, making a meal, or the version of this we had had two weeks ago in my apartment, when she had said, “Promise me you won't fall in love with me,” and Ihad lied to her face. This wasn't that. This was fast, honest, and the only thing I had to give her, and I gave it.
She gripped my hand harder.
Her body went tight against mine. She made the sound she made when the world narrowed for her — short, breath, gone — and I followed her, and we stopped.
I rolled off her and onto my back.
