I reach a hand across the console and brush my fingers across his crotch. My increasing boldness surprises me. “When? Now?” “I should write this paper first.” I groan. He laughs. “You’re probably sore anyway.” “So?” Athletes don’t complain about pain. “So that’s off the table.” I can’t quite grasp the disappointment that fills my chest. “Forever?” I find myself asking. The look he gives me says he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “For today.” That tight feeling in my chest eases. My voice sounds too husky, and far too needy, as I say, “But…it’s going to happen again?” His low chuckle heats the
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