“I know,” she said, ducking her head again. “I know.”
He was flattered. Or honored. More than that. Moved. Moved that not once, but twice, she’d been so—what?—carried away or in the moment or just with him that she would break her own hard-and-fast rule. His chest ached, and he wrapped her tighter in his arms and kissed her hair, her ear and her cheek.
Something occurred to him. “What else?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What are the other rules? What else do you have to do before it’s okay for you to have sex?”
When she shifted, he loosened his arms and she got up. She slipped her panties on, tugged her skirt down and examined herself in the mirror. As she tucked hair back into place, and rubbed at smeared eye makeup, he couldn’t help but think she was putting herself back together so he could take her apart again when they were ready.
His cock responded predictably and he decided he probably was always going to be ready for Haven. As many times as she polished and primped and restored her pristine condition, he’d be there to dismantle her. As long as she’d let him, that was. He was surprised she hadn’t started laying down the law yet. Hadn’t told him this was the last, last, last time and he’d better not say a word to anyone, et cetera.
He was ready to fight her on it.
After a few moment’s silence, she said, “Apartment has to be clean.” That same quick, almost ashamed way she’d admitted to not ever having unwaxed oral.
He was the one watching her from behind in the mirror, this time. He could tell she didn’t want to make eye contact with him when she confessed to this part of herself. He saw her make the decision to do it anyway, the moment when her gaze came up, and her eyes met his. He felt a click of recognition between them, a sense of something in him settling in deeper and making itself comfortable.
“Sheets have to be fresh.”
She was relaxing a little, now, not so stiff and short with her words. He hadn’t mocked her, and he guessed that was helping her get used to the idea of telling him this stuff.
“Does it always have to be in bed?”
“It always is.”
So that was something else she had given him, her office, this dressing room. Only he had experienced these things with her. His chest clenched again. “I assume hair, makeup, teeth, nails—all done?”
She nodded. There was something on her face. Not pride. Shame. Some pain he didn’t, couldn’t yet, understand. “It’s weird, right?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Not any weirder than anything else.” He said it to reassure her, but he meant it. “Not any weirder than how much of a charge I get out of knowing people might hear us, or walk in on us. Right? Sex is weird. You need what you need, for the reasons you need it. And sometimes your body and that deep-down back part of your brain know what that is before your smarter self knows.”
Her gaze hadn’t left his the whole time he’d been talking, and now her eyes were bright. She opened her mouth, struggled to say something, failed. She put her fingertips to her mouth as though something pained her.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t care. Body hair, no body hair, clean apartment, ants crawling on yesterday’s cereal bowls, I don’t give a crap. I like you. I want to be with you. I want you to be comfortable. That’s what matters to me.”