The ceiling fan turned slow above them, cutting the August heat into something almost bearable. Jonah laid on his back, one arm over his eyes, feeling the mattress shift as Elise rolled toward him. Her shoulder pressed into his. She did not speak for a while.
"Jonah."
"Mm."
"Take your hand off your face."
He moved his arm. The room flooded in: dark walls, a shelf of water-stained books, the window where the curtain had not quite closed, a sliver of streetlight moving across the plaster. Elise was looking at him with that expression he had started to recognize over the last three weeks. Not desire, exactly. Something more like a held breath.
"Okay," she said.
"What's okay?"
"The thing. The conversation we keep almost having."
He sat up. The sheets pooled at his waist. "You want to talk about it."
"I want to do it. And then talk about it. In that order."
He looked at her. She was wearing the grey tank top with the hole at the shoulder, the one she slept in when she was not going to be sentimental about it. Her hair was loose and fell across her face. She was not smiling. She was not joking. She had her arms crossed over her chest and her jaw set the way she did when she was about to say something she could not take back.
"Since when?" he asked.
"Since the thing with the—" She stopped. "Since I started reading about it properly. Not the magazine version. The actual anatomy. The nerve density. The fact that it's—" She made a small gesture with one hand. "That there's a whole other country down there that nobody's ever mapped for us."
"And you want me to map it."
"I want us to walk into it. Together. Slowly."
He reached across and took her hand. She let him hold it for a moment, then pulled it back and uncrossed her arms.
"But not tonight like a lecture. Tonight like—" She searched. "Tonight like we're trying something new in the kitchen. And if it's bad, we throw it out and eat sandwiches."
He laughed. It came out shorter than he expected, almost strangled.
"Sandwiches," he repeated.
"Sandwiches."
She turned away from him, rolled onto her side, and pulled the sheet up. "Go get the water. The warm one. And the—" She waved a hand vaguely. "The other thing."
"The lube."
"The other thing."
"Elise."
"Jonah."
"The lube, Elise."
A pause. Then, very quietly: "Get the lube."
He went to the bathroom. The bottle was in the cabinet under the sink, behind the cotton pads and the expired antiseptic. He ran the tap, let hot water pool, tested it with his wrist, poured some into the basin. He came back with both: the basin, and the bottle, unscrewed, a generous bead of clear gel on the tip of his index finger.
She was on her side, facing away from him, knees drawn up. The tank top had ridden up. He set the basin on the nightstand and knelt behind her.
"How much?" she asked.
"What?"
"How much are we doing. How much of the—" Another vague hand gesture. "How deep."
"I don't know. However far it goes."
"Jonah."
"I know. I know. We go slow."
She exhaled through her nose. Then she rolled forward, onto her elbows, and the sheet slid down her hips. She was bare from the waist down. The skin was smooth and unmarked except for the faint blue of veins at her hip bones, and the small scar at her lower back where she'd fallen off a bike at nineteen.
He set the basin aside. Took the bottle. Squeezed a line of gel along his finger and spread it across her entrance with his thumb. She flinched, then stilled. Her fingers found the sheet and gripped it.
"Warm?" he asked.
"Warm."
"Tell me when."
"Tell me when what."
"When to go further."
"Okay."
He pressed his thumb flat against her. She gasped, a short sharp sound, and her thighs pressed together for an instant before she forced them open again. He held the pressure, slow, almost nothing, just enough to let the tissue learn what was happening.
"There," she whispered.
He drew back. Added more gel to his finger. Pressed again, deeper this time, until he felt the ring tighten, then slowly relax around him. She made a sound into her elbow, low and broken.
"Again," she said.
He pressed again, slower, letting the tissue part around him before he went any deeper. She arched into it, a small cry escaping her throat, her hips pushing back to meet the pressure. He felt her tighten, then give way, then tighten again, like a door being opened and closed by an uncertain hand.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me in."
"I'm trying."
He drew back to the edge, coated his finger again, and pressed forward once more. This time she did not resist. Her breath came in shallow bursts against her elbow. He felt the ring relax around him, slowly, then open, and he sank in to the base of his knuckle. She made a long, low sound, almost a groan, and her fingers twisted in the sheet.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He held there, breathing with her, feeling the slow pulse of her around him. The room had gone quiet except for the fan and the streetlight flickering outside. He drew back halfway, then pressed in again, deeper, to the second knuckle. She gasped, her thighs parting wider, her head falling forward.
"Jonah—" she started.
"Still here."
"It's—" She stopped, swallowed. "It's a lot."
"A lot how."
"A lot—" She gestured vaguely again. "A lot of everything. A lot of— There. That spot."
"Which one."
"The one that makes me want to—" She trailed off, face pressed into her arm.
He understood. He adjusted, angled his finger slightly, and pressed toward that spot. She broke, a sharp broken sound, her whole body shuddering, her hips jerking back against him. Her thighs trembled. He held steady, slow circles now, just enough to keep the pressure on that place.
"There," she whispered. "There, Jonah."
"Found it."
"Don't stop."
"Not yet."
He worked her for a while, slow and deliberate, feeling her muscles learn the shape of him, opening and closing in waves. She was making small sounds now, bitten off, her breath coming fast and hot against her elbow. Her hips were moving against him without her seeming to notice, pushing back, drawing him deeper each time.
"Elise."
"Mm."
"You can say it."
"Say what."
"That you're coming."
"I don't know if I am."
"Try."
A long pause. Then, very quietly: "Okay."
He pressed deeper, firm and steady, finding that spot again, working it in slow arcs. Her breathing changed, quickened, lost its rhythm. Her fingers white-knuckled the sheet. Her hips were moving now, real movement, pushing back into each press. She made a sound, then another, longer, her body arching off the mattress, her toes curling.
"Jonah—" she gasped.
"Come."
She came with his name, a long torn sound, her whole body convulsing around him, her inner muscles clenching in a series of sharp pulses. He felt her take him deeper with each wave, held him inside, squeezed, released, squeezed again. He kept moving through it, slow, matching her rhythm, feeling her unravel.
When it passed, she lay still, chest heaving, face still pressed into her arm. He withdrew slowly, carefully, watching her face. She exhaled, long and shaky.
"Sandwiches," she said.
"Sandwiches."
"But maybe not tonight."
"Maybe not."
She turned onto her back, hair spread across the pillow, face flushed, eyes bright. He lay beside her, still coated in gel, and took her hand.
"Again?" he asked.
"Later," she said. "Tonight we eat."
"We're not eating sandwiches."
"We are."
"Elise."
"Jonah."
"The sandwiches."
"Get the sandwiches."
He laughed, kissed her forehead, and went to the kitchen. Behind him, in the dark bedroom, she rolled onto her side, pressed her palm flat against her lower belly, and felt the slow aftershock pulse again, faint, warm, like a second heartbeat settling in.
The ceiling fan turned slow above them. The curtain still had not quite closed. Outside, the streetlight moved across the plaster, and stayed.
