Overwhelmed, her mind breaks things down into tiny bites—the sudden sagging of mutual space, the anxious hovering, his hot breath on the corner of her mouth. The disorientation of his scent. A touch on the cheek steers him right. This mouth isn’t like any other mouth. It’s not sure of itself. It doesn’t use her brand of toothpaste. It’s soft, like it might break hers, like his skin might mix with her skin into something deadly.

She says I’m not sure at the same time he says this is a bad idea. He touches the space between her collarbones with the tip of a finger and this gesture turns her on like the kissing couldn’t. They rise and fall around him, betraying the sudden kick in her pulse rate. His breath mirrors hers and his voice catches in his throat, turns over a little, and by the time his lips are reasserting themselves on her neck she is re-stringing those words: I’m not sure this is a bad idea.