I braced my hand and looked at her, and she was already smiling.
"Okay." She said it more to herself than to me, hands finding the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric. "Okay."
"Have you done this before?"
I asked it to fill the space. Not because I needed to know. The question sat between us for a second, light, almost ordinary, while everything underneath it was anything but.
"I don't know." The smile widened. Soft. Unsteady at the edges.
"What do you mean you don't—"
The question came apart somewhere in the middle, because her eyes had rolled back and her mouth had opened and I forgot the shape of the rest of it. The sound that left her was low and broken and completely unguarded. Her body tightened under me for a second—thighs, stomach, the small muscles along her ribs—then released.
"Oh." The sound got away from her. "Wait."
I stopped. Completely. The heat of her still around me, the pressure of her, but no movement. Waiting.
