“Why?”
She rubbed her thumb across her palm.
“Because I want this, and I don’t want wanting it to make you feel like you agreed to anything beyond tonight.”
The sentence was clumsy enough to be honest.
“I’m not agreeing to forever,” I said.
“Okay.”
“I’m agreeing to tonight.”
“Okay.”
“And tomorrow morning.”
Her mouth curved.
“That is a meaningful extension.”
“Do not negotiate past breakfast.”
“I would never.”
“That is clearly untrue.”
I pulled the T-shirt over her head before she could answer.
The kiss that followed was not careful.
We had attempted careful at the seawall and in the kitchen. Now Annie’s hands moved across my skin with familiar confidence, interrupted by moments when she paused and searched my face as though checking whether I had changed my mind.
I had not.
We undressed between kisses and several collisions with the furniture. Annie struck her knee against the bedframe and swore into my shoulder.
“You warned me about the steps,” she whispered.
“The bed has developed defensive measures.”
“I feel unwelcome.”
I pushed her backward onto the mattress.
“That should clarify matters.”
“It does.”
The first time we slept together, I had known Annie for only a few days and believed I understood the parts that mattered.
This time, I knew more and trusted less, but she was not asking me to ignore either fact.
Her mouth moved along my throat. My fingers tightened in her hair, and every thought I had used to protect myself became harder to hold onto.
There was nothing cautious about wanting her.
The caution existed around it, in the questions we had not answered and the promises neither of us was ready to make.
