My senses come back to me one at a time: first the feel of him still inside me, the weight of his body, warm and slick with sweat. My own body is tender, leaden with pleasure.
I hear the sound of his labored breath in my ear, the quiet I love you.
After that I can taste and smell the salt of his skin when I kiss his neck, and I begin to make out the shape of his shoulders above me, the slow rocking as he begins moving again, just feeling.
He brushes the hair from my face and looks down at me. “I want to pretend,” he says.
“Pretend?”
“Yes.”
He pushes up to hover above me and I run my hands down his sweaty chest, touching where he disappears inside. A tremor moves up my spine and I feel the heat of his gaze, the pressing weight of his attention as he scans my face, dissects my expression.
“Pretend what?” I ask.
“That it’s six months from now.” His fingers comb through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. “And I’m living here. I want to pretend that I’m through with the case and we’re together. Permanently.”
“Okay.” I reach up and pull his face to mine.
“And maybe you have a showgirl costume and have finally learned how to juggle.” He kisses me and then pulls back, brows drawn in an expression of mock seriousness. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
“That’s your fantasy?”
He tilts his head, his smile a little mischievous. “It’s certainly one of them.”
“And the others?” I ask. I’d wear anything for him, but I know I could be myself for him, just as easily. I want to spend every night loving as much as I love right now.
For the hundredth time I wonder if the words I haven’t said are written above my head, because his smile widens, reaching his eyes in that way that sucks the breath straight from my lungs.
“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”