I roll it onto him and climb onto him.
I brace my feet on the rungs of the stool and my hands on his shoulders, and I sink down onto him, taking every inch. The stretch fills me so completely I have to stop breathing, and his hand grips the counter edge to keep the stool stable, and it all hits me at once.
“You can touch me,” I whisper. “Just don’t — don’t take over.”
His forehead drops to mine. “Okay.”
I roll my hips, slow, again and again, finding the angle that works on this piece of furniture, my hands cupping his face. His eyes are open. He’s watching me, he has nowhere to hide, and he isn’t trying to.
I catch his jaw and make him hold my gaze. “Don’t look away.”
“Couldn’t if I tried,” he says, voice gone rough.
I kiss him and keep moving, slow and deep, my forehead against his, breathing the same air. His hands settle on my waist, light, then heavier as I lean into him, and he’s fighting it — the urge to lift me, take me to the bed, be the one doing this to me instead of with me.
I feel the moment he loses the fight — his hands loosen, and his whole body softens underneath me like something heavy has finally been set down. So I go faster, and the angle shifts, and then he’s hitting something deep inside me that makes my thighs shake.
The stool creaks and I get louder and I don’t care, because his face when I moan is something I want to see again. He buries his face in my neck, his arms wrap around my back, and he’s holding on, both of us moving together, and he trembles under me.
“Stay with me,” I say into his hair.
“I’m here.” His voice is barely holding together.
His hands slide up my back and haul me flush against him, shifting the angle so every roll of my hips drags right where I need it — and I almost laugh, because even when I’ve told him not to take over, he can’t stop looking after me.
“Rowan—”
“I know,” he says, rough against my mouth.
His hands settle at my hips — not driving, just holding me steady at the angle that’s unmaking me — and every nerve I have narrows to where our bodies meet. Then I come with my forehead pressed to his, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
“They can just deal with it,” he says, as if sensing my thoughts.
I laugh and clench around him and feel him lose it, his hips jerking up into me twice, then once more, his arms crushing me to him, his face in my neck. Then comes a long shuddering exhale, his teeth gentle against my collarbone, and my name muffled into my skin.
We stay there for I don’t know how long, him softening inside me, his arms tight around me, his breathing evening out against my chest. The kitchen smells like garlic and sex, and his heart beats where I’m pressed against him.
“I think you broke me,” he says.
“Good.”
He huffs a laugh that turns into another long breath.
Eventually I lift off him and my legs don’t hold, but he catches my elbow, steadying me. We deal with the condom and the scattered clothes in the graceless way nobody puts in movies. He pulls his sweats back up and hands me his Halden Hockey T-shirt.
I pull it over my head, and it falls halfway down my thighs. “Bed,” I say.
I take his hand, lead him there, and we crawl in together. I expect him to lie on his back and pull me against his chest, theway he did before, but he turns into me instead, his head against my chest, one leg hooked over mine, his arm heavy across my stomach.
As I adjust to the weight of him against me, his breathing has already started to steady, like his body trusts mine. I’m sure he’s going to sleep, and it wouldn’t be the worst thing for him, given how stressed and tired he is.
But then he speaks. “I don’t know how to do this part,” he says.
“What part?”
“The part where someone else is the strong one.”
I stroke his hair. “You’re doing fine.”
