AMELIA

“That was amazing.”

Luke was looking down at her, propped up on one elbow and covered with a sheen of slick sweat, still breathing heavily. “Amazing,” he said again.

Amelia pulled the sheet over her naked body, looked up at him and smiled, trying not to roll her eyes. Luke’s so-called “ravaging” had started out promising—they had crashed through his bedroom door in a panting tangle, all grappling arms and flying clothing—but then, like always, it had wound up as ten uninspired minutes of banging in the missionary position. The headboard had tapped the wall so rhythmically that she could have set a watch by it. She had tried to make it interesting, whispering in his ear and clawing at his back, telling him what she wanted him to do to her. But Luke, who had been almost unrecognizable when he threw her onto the bed with exhilarating, animal intensity, had looked shocked, then shushed her and settled into the usual routine. He was back in his comfort zone. As she looked at him, she realized that he was still wearing his glasses . . . and his socks.

Ugh, she thought.

He was staring down at her, expecting a reply.

“Mmm,” she said.

“Are you upset with me?”

She looked away. “Not exactly.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just get nervous when you . . . talk. It’s weird. It’s harsh; it sounds dirty.”

“Sex is dirty,” she said. “That’s part of the fun, you know.”

“Not when you’re in love.” He rolled out of the bed, pulled on his boxers, walked a few agitated paces across the floor. She watched him. He padded over to the dresser, opened a drawer, and began pulling out shirts, tossing them onto the foot of the bed.

“Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?” she said. The patient feeling had come back. “Sweet sex is nice, but it doesn’t have to be like that every time. And it doesn’t mean that I love you less.”

He didn’t answer, but closed the drawer—hard—and moved on to the one below it. A few pairs of socks and underwear joined the pile at the foot of the bed. He looked at her again, quickly, almost furtively. She sat up, letting the sheet fall into her lap, breasts exposed. Even though he’d seen them hundreds of times before, his face reddened and he turned away.

“Hey,” she said. He pulled open the next drawer.

“I don’t want to fight about this,” he muttered.

“We’re not fighting,” she said. “We’re just talking. I’m talking to you. Don’t you ever want to fuck? Not make love, just, fuck?”

“I don’t know.”

Her voice was breathier. “No? Haven’t you ever thought about grabbing me from behind and throwing me against the wall? Just taking what you wanted?” She stepped out of bed, crossed the room in three steps, the blond wood cold against her bare feet, and pushed her body against his. He whirled to face her and gripped her shoulders. His eyes narrowed. She slid her knee between his legs.

“Come on,” she said, curling her fingers into the knots of hard muscle at his waist. “Come on.”

She lifted her chin, defiant, raising her mouth closer to his. They stared at each other. And then, suddenly so that she barely had time to take a breath, he kissed her so hard that her ears popped.