Her breasts were small — and perfect, he thought, as he used his lips and tongue to pull her nipple and areola into his mouth. She moaned softly, the nipple stiffening against his tongue, his teeth gently grazing wherever his tongue wasn’t circling and flicking. She moaned again, and he allowed his hands to range across her body, exploring her ribs and belly and thighs, now caressing a foot, now a buttock, now a shoulder. One hand massaged her breast — the one not occupying his mouth; at one point he held his hand flat, fingers extended, his palm making light contact with the hard tip of her, the areola puckered and visibly aching for more attention. He switched hands while his mouth slowly made its way across her, not so much sliding as touching down, often, to explore her skin, her scent, her taste. All the while staying attuned — trying mightily to stay attuned — to the sounds she made, to the way her voice changed, to the rise and fall of her chest and the pattern of her breath.

She wanted him to tarry; she wanted him to hurry. Every touch, every butterfly kiss, every connecting between them scrambled her senses, made her crave more, pulled together for her the conflicting threads of want, need, and desire. At one point she reached out, grabbed his head, pulled him up to her mouth: she was desperate to control some aspect of the encounter, even while she wanted nothing more than to cede to his touch utterly, to lose herself in the completeness of his attention to her, his uncanny knowledge of where to touch, how to touch, when to touch, how long to touch, a mystery she hoped never to unravel.

His head was between her legs, but she craved another kiss. He sensed her need, rising to meet her lips, their tongues dancing a frenzied tarantella, sharing somehow both the joy of discovery and the comfort of familiarity. She felt herself rising again, building, ready to burst, trusting that he would know the right moment, knowing that he would. She felt herself reach the precipice, her body arched, her mind emptied.

The Ethan Allen Express lurched to a halt at Penn Station, jolting her awake, and she almost cried out. Or had she dreamed that part? She quietly took stock of herself, her eyes darting around at the other passengers, wondering what she might have said, what they might have heard, not daring to meet their gaze and relieved to see that — as far as she could tell, in her addled and agitated state — that they were as unaware of her condition as she was hyper-aware. She had never felt such longing: it was odd, good, frustrating, comforting, a bizarre mix of seemingly opposed feelings that she held onto. She texted him just before boarding the subway: Come find me.