Corinne’s dining room chairs weren’t made for two people. Two people kissing. Corinne sat straddling Enoch’s lap. He held her by the seat of her jeans. Her fingers were curled at the base of his skull, tilting his head back so she could kiss him.
The first time Enoch rocked his hips up, the chair tipped backward. He shot an arm out to the table to keep them from falling, but Corinne was already sliding off his lap. She landed in a squat on the floor, giggling.
“Come on,” she said, letting him pull her to her feet. “We don’t have to do this on a chair. We’re not circus folk.”
Enoch stood up, too. His knees cracked. His cheeks and neck were flushed, and his eyes were wide and hungry. Corinne took one of his hands and slung his arm over her shoulder, hauling him toward her bedroom. He put his other hand on her waist and followed her.
They’d never been in here together … Corinne’s bedroom was much smaller than Enoch’s. Her bed was smaller, too. A double. And she only had one pillow. (God, what an aggressively celibate statement that was.) Once they were in the room, she turned to him. His head was hanging over her like his neck had stopped working. He hunched lower and started kissing her again.
“Bed,” Corinne said. “I have a bed.” She sat down on it and scooted backwards, holding her hands out to him like she was calling to a dog. Whatever. It worked. He climbed over her and kissed her some more. These were her favorite kisses. The ones that were almost bites. Enoch rubbed the front of his jeans into her thigh, and Corinne bent her knee to help. He moaned. She pulled up the end of his shirt. “Let me see you.”
Enoch got up on his knees to take off his long-sleeved shirt and the T-shirt underneath. “Let me see you,” he said with his elbows in the air and his voice still muffled.
Corinne was wearing a T-shirt and a cardigan. She squirmed out of the sweater, and Enoch helped her with the shirt. She was wearing the mint-green bra again. He was going to think she only had one.
“Beautiful girl,” he said, falling down next to her and wrapping one big hand around the back of her neck. Enoch Miller’s thumb on her throat. His mouth over hers. His shoulders so square, his parents must have used a compass to draw them. He kissed her. Corinne spread her fingers out on his flanks and rubbed her leg up into his … (“Crotch”? Christ no, not even in her head.) (There should be a word, better words, for all of this, for what she was doing and how much he liked it—her knee between his legs, his hips already bucking against her.)
He let his hand drift down to cup one of her breasts, but he still seemed too timid to move his fingers. Corinne pulled her mouth away. “That feels good,” she whispered.
Enoch swallowed and looked at his hand. “Like this?”
“Like that and more.”
He looked confused.
Corinne took his wrist in her hand and pressed his palm into her breast.
“Like that?” he asked.
“Like…” Corinne arched into his hand. “I want you to take what you want from me.”
He frowned. “Isn’t that what I did the first time?”
She squeezed his wrist and looked in his eyes. “Is it?”
Enoch held on to her gaze. After a second, he shook his head. “No.”
“I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”
Enoch’s head dropped back onto hers, kissing more fiercely. He clenched his fingers around her breast—his hand was nearly big enough to palm her—and she sighed, nodding her head. He went to pull her bra strap down, and Corinne lifted a hand to help him. Then he was up on his knees again, dragging both straps all the way down and off, and reaching in to scoop her breasts out of their cups. He groaned low—“Corinne…”
She arched her back again, and he touched her breasts with purpose—finally—his thick fingers stretched wide, squeezing her. His lips were parted. His face was almost pained.
“That feels so good,” Corinne said, to encourage him. And because it did.
Enoch shook his head and closed his eyes. “I can hardly look at you.”
She covered his hands with hers, so he wouldn’t pull away. “Why?”
He looked up at her face. “You’re just more than I expected. It’s better than I imagined it could be. I wish you could see my hands on your—” He stopped short.
“Breasts,” Corinne said.
“Breasts,” he whispered.
She looked down at his hands. “I can see.”
He squeezed her. “I wish you could see through my eyes.”
Corinne whined and pushed into his hands.
Enoch squeezed and squeezed and then brought his thumbs up over her nipples. They were thick like the rest of her and already tight. It made her feel crazy; she wasn’t putting him on. “Touch me,” she said. “Don’t stop touching me.”
Enoch lay down next to her, and she rolled toward him. They took up the whole bed. (He must have a king bed at home, or some sort of extra king.) He rubbed her nipples and kissed the top of her breasts. She held his head. His neck, his ears.
“Here,” Enoch said, reaching under her. Corinne lifted up, and he unhooked her bra, tossing it off the bed. “Thank you for your service.”
She laughed and brushed his hair away from his eyes. Enoch drew her in close, their chests pressed together, their noses touching. Corinne shook her head. “No matter where you touch me,” she said. “I don’t want it to stop.”
“I don’t have to stop,” he said, caressing her back. (Actually fucking “caressing” her.)
“But I want you to touch me everywhere else, too.”
“I’ve got two hands and a fairly open schedule.”
Corinne laughed again and kissed him.
“Hey, Corinne…” Enoch whispered. He still sounded nervous.
“Yeah.”
“I feel pretty dumb saying this, but … I didn’t bring a condom with me.”
She petted his hair. “I didn’t seem like a sure thing?”
“I guess I wasn’t thinking, but—” He kissed her quickly. “I don’t want to stop. Could we just keep going, and I can touch you? Or, really, whatever you want. Could we just keep going?”
“Yeah.” She kissed him. She brought a knee up over his thigh. “Or…”
He kissed her. “Or?”
“Not really ‘or,’ but—I have, um, spermicide. I bought it today. At the grocery store.”
“Spermicide?”
“It’s a gel,” she said.
He still looked confused.
“It goes inside. Of me.”
“Does it work?”
“Not as well as condoms. But…”
He kissed her twice. “But?”
Corinne looked away. “You could pull out. If you want. Not if you want—but if you want to try that. It might be easier this first time than worrying about the condom.”
“Corinne…” He rubbed his nose against hers. “Did you buy mildly effective spermicide gel because I’m condom-impaired?”
She smoothed his hair back. “Yes.”
“I can’t decide if that’s insulting or romantic.”
“I’m crazy about you,” she said softly.
“I’m crazy about you, too.”
“I know.” She kissed him again. “And I just want to clear away as much anxiety as we can. I want to have this with you, Enoch.”
“Aw, honey…” He brought his hand up to her chin and kissed her properly. And then he leaned closer to whisper in her ear: “I can try to pull out. It might be a real in-and-out situation though. I’ve been on borrowed time for an hour.”
Corinne laughed and pushed closer, rubbing her chest against his. She didn’t care if it was fast; at this point, she just really wanted it to happen. To prove it could happen. That they weren’t cursed somehow. Like, they’d had sex in the worst way at eighteen and ruined their chances of ever doing it again.
And she wanted it to happen because she wanted it to happen. He made her feel eighteen again, like she’d take his cock however she could get it. It didn’t make sense. Corinne wasn’t obsessed with penetration. She wouldn’t cross the street for it, generally speaking. But she wanted him, she wanted this. She wanted what they had at eighteen, the desire and the urgency and the consummation of it all. And she wanted what they had now, the love and the time and the talking—and the bed.
Enoch unbuttoned her jeans and pulled down the zip. He slid his hand into the top of her underwear. Corinne was wearing the satin bottoms that matched her bra. She should get credit for that, even if the bra was on the floor. He rubbed his big hand against the pad of her pubic bone. (“Pubic bone”; English was a failure.) Corinne hadn’t shaved or done anything weird to get ready—she’d be damned if she resorted to pubic grooming, even for the love of her life. Enoch was growling into her mouth. He didn’t care. Or notice. Corinne tried not to imagine Shannon Frank’s no doubt impeccable vagina.
She shoved at the side of her jeans. (She really did want credit for the satin underwear.) Enoch helped her get them down under her ass and over her thighs, and Corinne kicked them off as soon as she could.
“Corinne…” Enoch said, rubbing her bottom.
Enoch, she thought. Enoch, Enoch, Enoch. She stroked his slippery hair and his thick neck; she bit his shoulder.
Enoch’s hands weren’t big enough to palm her ass, but he tried. “You match,” he groaned.
Corinne rubbed her face into his neck, nodding.
His voice was urgent, confessional—“I’m so in love with you, Corinne.”
I’m so in love with you, Enoch.
He moved one hand along the satin, over her hip and between their bodies, between her legs. She was wet through. (She wasn’t usually, but it had been more than an hour of waiting.) (Technically speaking, it had been since 1992.)
“Corinne, Corinne…”
“Enoch…”
“Honey, you’re so wet.”
“I want you.”
He worked his fingers under the fabric and inside her … (“Labia”? “Folds”? This is why Prince wrote “Sugar Walls.”) (Before he found Jesus.) Enoch Miller’s thick hand. His blunt fingers. Two of them. Inside her. (Not fully inside her. In the foyer. The sugar foyer.) He hadn’t touched her like this that first time, on the couch—he hadn’t touched her at all.
Corinne felt weak and wholly wanting. She whimpered against his neck. “Enoch…”
“Honey?”
She nodded.
He pushed a finger deeper. “Corinne?”
“Yeah?”
Enoch was breathing heavy. He was rubbing one finger just a little bit in and out, feeling the ring of muscle. “How effective is it?”
“Hmm?”
“The spermicide.”
“Oh…”
In and out, in and out.
“Oh,” she sighed.
“Like,” he pushed, “compared to condoms?”
“Mmm … like, seventy-five percent effective?”
Enoch pulled his finger back. “That’s not very effective at all.”
Corinne rocked herself (her “self,” honestly) against his hand. “That’s why you’re going to pull out.”
“I’ll still leak though. I mean, I leak.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s very sexy.”
“But it’s not … Well, it’s not safe, is it?”
“I wouldn’t have suggested we try this if I was fertile.”
He pulled his hand away. He pulled his head back. “Corinne.”
“I mean, in my cycle,” she said quickly. “I’m about to get my period.”
He shook his head, gathering himself. “I can just touch you,” he said. “I want to touch you.”
“Okay, but Enoch—I’m not going to get pregnant the day before my period, even if you don’t pull out.”
“I would pull out.”
“I’m not worried about it. Are you worried?”
“I just, um—” He was clearly worried. “What would we do if you got pregnant?”
“Deal with it, I guess?”
“Would you have an abortion?”
“Oh my God.” Corinne pulled her hips away from him. “Did you really just ask me about abortion?”
“I did,” he groaned. “I’m sorry.”
She rolled onto her back and folded her arms over her chest. “What on earth?”
“It just…” He was still propped up on his side. “It seems like something we should talk about?”
“Now?”
“Better now than…”
“I’m not going to have an abortion, why would you think that?”
He ran a hand up through his hair. “I don’t know what to think—we’ve never talked about it. You might be pro-choice…”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Are you?”
Corinne closed her eyes. “Mostly. Sort of. But that doesn’t mean I want to have one.”
“Okay, so”—he was trying to sound reasonable—“that’s good to know.”
“Is it?”
“Corinne, I’m sorry. I guess I should have brought this up over dinner or something…”
She growled low in her throat. Frustrated. Irritated. Unwilling to admit that he might be right, about discussing it. Uncomfortable discussing it in nothing but mint-green underwear. “It’s fine,” she said, sounding very not fine. “It’s just—you people are obsessed with abortion.”
“By ‘you people,’ do you mean people who want to have sex with you?”
“That’s not a people—that’s just you. Purportedly. And I meant the church.”
Enoch dropped onto his stomach next to her and hid his face in her pillow. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“It’s fine,” she said again, sounding slightly more conciliatory. “You’re right, we should talk about it. If I get pregnant tonight, despite staggering odds, I’ll keep the baby. Just like in the Madonna song. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said into the pillow.
“But we’re not raising the kid in the church.”
He lifted his head up. “Corinne,” he said and meant, Don’t be a jerk.
“I’m serious. No kid of mine—no miracle fruit of my loins—is growing up like that.”
Enoch looked hopeful. “But ‘we’re’ raising it?”
She scowled at him.
The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Our kid might want to go to church.”
“Our kid might be gay.”
“They should get to decide about church for themselves.”
“At sixteen.”
“Eight is the age of reason…”
“That’s absolute bullshit,” she said. “Eighteen.”
“All right, eighteen, but can we reopen this conversation if we ever, actually decide to have kids?”
Corinne kept her arms tightly folded over her nipples. “Fine.”
He was still smiling with one side of his mouth. His voice was gentle. “That’s my first accidental-pregnancy accord.”
She rolled her eyes.
Enoch shifted back onto his side and tucked one arm under his head, so he could rest on his biceps. “Do you want me to get your shirt for you?”
“Sort of.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned abortion while I was touching your … What word do you like?”
“What word do you like?”
He reached down to the end of the bed, where she kept a quilt folded. He spread it out over them. “Better?”
“Yes.” She pulled the quilt up over her shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Come closer?”
Corinne sighed and shuffled toward him. Enoch moved his arm from under his head and offered it to her as a pillow. She took it. His biceps twitched under her cheek, it was devastating.
“I’m just trying not to screw this up,” he said.
“I know,” she admitted.
Corinne’s hair was still in a ponytail. Enoch hooked his index finger under the rubber band and pulled it down. She reached up and held the base, so he wouldn’t tear hair out of her head.
“Thank you for your service,” he said, flipping the elastic off the bed.
“Are you going to personally thank all my clothes?”
“Wait ’til I get your panties off,” he said soberly. “I’m going to kiss them good-bye.”
She raised her shoulders up to her ears and scrunched her nose.
Enoch put his fingers in her hair, close to her scalp, to shake it loose. “You really want me to say ‘underwear’?”
“Don’t say anything at all. I feel like it’s an avoidable concept.”
He laughed. It was just a breath. “I have one more thing I want to talk about while we’re not in a compromised position…”
“I still feel kinda compromised,” Corinne whispered. Enoch was playing with her hair and it was tickling her back.
“Shouldn’t we use a condom…” he asked. “You know, for other health reasons?”
“Three days ago, you’d never even heard of condoms—did you watch a filmstrip or something?”
He sighed. “I can’t stress how much I don’t want to mess this up with you.”
“All right … Let’s talk about it. Let’s be grown-ups.” She took a deep breath and then let it out. “I haven’t had sex in a very long time, and I’ve been to the gynecologist two or three times since then. So … I’m definitely clear.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Have you slept with anyone other than Shannon?”
“You.”
Corinne couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, well—do you think Shannon cheated on you?”
“I know she didn’t.”
“Enoch, I know we have a lot to worry about, but I think we can let this one go.”
He nodded. “All right.” He was still playing with her hair. “A very long time, huh?”
Corinne nodded.
“How come?”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t a priority.” He kept petting her. She shivered. “I feel like you have this image of my worldly life … Like I spent the last thirteen years partying and having abortions.”
“I don’t think that, but…”
“But what?”
“But I know you’ve been out there, in the world, in a way that I haven’t. I got married at nineteen, Corinne.”
“I know.”
“Well, so, I figure you’ve done a lot of things that I haven’t. And I don’t judge you for any of it.”
She winced. “On the one hand, I’m grateful for your … magnanimity? On the other … it feels like I’m getting a presidential pardon for the crime of drinking a few wine coolers and being a serial monogamist.”
“Are you a serial monogamist?”
“It’s been a pretty limited series.”
He snorted and pulled his fingers through a tangle in her hair. “I think you’re the funniest person I’ve ever known…”
Corinne tipped her head forward and raised her eyebrows. “Enoch. That’s what you should have said when you had your hand in my…” The joke fell flat because she couldn’t finish the sentence.
Enoch slid his hand down to her waist, and hauled her in. “You better tell me what word you like for that. I don’t think it’s an avoidable concept.”
“Has been so far.”
“Ba-boom-tsssssk,” he said, sounding impressively like a snare drum. He leaned closer to kiss her neck. After a few kisses, he said, “I’m not trying to be patronizing about your life.”
“I know that. I do know that.” She touched his cheek. The curve of his neck. The hollow at the bottom of his throat. “Some of this is my family. The way I’ve learned to be with them. They don’t want to hear about my life—they’re scared of it. I don’t just have a scarlet letter; I have, like, a whole scarlet letterman’s jacket.”
He kissed her neck some more. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s just…” Corinne felt desperate for Enoch to understand her, to see her. “I came from the same place you did. I have most of the same hang-ups. I’m not in the church, but I’m not…”
“Caligula?”
“Caligula?”
He lifted up his head. “I was trying to think of a famous pervert.”
“I’m not a famous pervert.”
“No, I know.”
She could feel herself frowning. She could hear her voice coming out too earnest—“They always taught us that people who left the church were more debased than people who were born in the world, that they were hungry for sin.” She squeezed his shoulder. “But that hasn’t been my life. I don’t drink. I’ve never smoked. I took some comparative religion classes that might freak you out, but I’ve only had sex with three people.”
Enoch looked surprised. “Plus me?”
“No—including you.”
“Really?”
She punched his shoulder. “Really.”
“Why not, Corinne? You’re super hot.”
She laughed—half flattered, half exasperated—and punched him again. (It was hardly a punch, and his shoulder was solid as a rock.) “Because that’s not what I wanted from life. I didn’t leave the church because I was easy.”
He brought one hand up to her cheek. “Trust me, I never thought that…”
“Are you going to make a joke now about me being difficult?”
“I’m trying,” he said, “but I can’t quite make it work.”
“Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are. This counts as a smile for you. The raised brow, the twinkly eyes.”
The corner of his mouth tweaked up. “I’m really happy, I can’t help it.”
Corinne’s voice dropped suspiciously. “Why are you so happy?”
“Because we’re talking. We’re working it out. A few minutes ago, you were making topless parenting decisions—I liked it a lot.”
She huffed.
“And I guess I am relieved…” he said.
“That I remained sexually repressed and guided by shame, even outside of the Lord’s favor?”
Enoch rested his forehead against hers. “That you haven’t told me anything I can’t wrap my head around.”
Corinne relaxed into him. If she was being honest, she felt the same way. Gay ex-wife. Condom anxiety. Accidental-pregnancy accord. She could swallow all of it. The only thing that was still stuck in her throat was his faith. (Which was a very big thing, to be sure, but at least it wasn’t a surprise.)
“I wasn’t judging you,” he said, “but I did think I was competing with at least twice as many guys in your memory…”
“It isn’t a competition,” she said, then begrudgingly added, “and even if it was, no one else has ever taken up so much space in my head. No one compared to you, Enoch.”
He hummed, low in his throat. “I shouldn’t like it so much when you say that.”
“Why not?”
“I shouldn’t need it.”
“It’s still true,” she said.
Enoch kissed her. He kissed her with his jaw thrust forward, looking down at her from the very bottom of his eyes. It made her heart drop into her vaginal canal. Like a key dropping into a lock. She dug her hands into his neck and his shoulders. She pulled herself higher and closer to him. Enoch rubbed her lower back with the flat of his palm and the pads of his fingers. When he pushed his hand down into her underwear, she felt faint with relief. He got a handful of her ass and squeezed. Yes. Corinne nodded her head.
He flipped her onto her back and pulled his arm out from under her neck. Her head bounced against the mattress. He was pulling her underwear down. Straight down. No messing around. His jaw was set, his eyebrows low.
When Corinne’s ankles were free, she bent her knees and spread her legs; she wasn’t messing around either.
Enoch tossed her underwear off the bed (silently thanking them, no doubt) and slid the first two fingers of his right hand straight into her. All the way to the hilt. Corinne clutched her hands in her own hair and whimpered.
Enoch lay down next to her, slowly pumping his fingers in and out, feeling her. “Corinne…”
“Enoch.”
“Oh, honey.”
She lifted her hips up off the bed then let them fall. Enoch. Enoch Miller. His square palms, his long, thick fingers. His fat mouth taking bites out of her shoulder.
He nipped at her ear. “Did you already do it?”
Did he mean, come? Because, wow, no.
“The spermicide…” he said.
“Oh.” Corinne pushed herself up onto her elbows.
Enoch kept pumping into her. She fell back again. He pushed deeper. He hovered over her, watching her face. “Is that good?”
She nodded, hard.
“Like that?”
“Yeah…”
“Go get the stuff, Corinne.” He didn’t stop touching her.
“I can’t,” she panted.
“You can’t?”
She slapped his wrist and tried to sit up. “You’re a fucking tease.”
Enoch laughed out loud and slid his hand out.
Corinne rolled onto her stomach to get away from him. She rose up onto her elbows and knees. Enoch was kneeling, too. He slung his arm around her hips and pulled her back, pushing his fingers into her from behind.
Corinne gasped.
“Yeah?” Enoch breathed, fucking into her.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“Yeah…” he said, low, dropping a kiss onto her rear. “Corinne.”
“Let me get it,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“I can’t.”
“Go ahead, honey.”
Her face fell onto the bed. “I can’t.”
“Corinne…”
“That feels so good.”
Enoch pulled his hand away and fell back on his haunches, slapping her bottom. “Go. Hurry up.”
Corinne stumbled off the bed, a little disoriented. She held her arms under her breasts, like she was holding a baby. Enoch was watching her. His eyes were dancing.
The spermicide was in her dresser. She grabbed the whole box. Enoch was standing next to her bed, taking off his jeans. There was light coming in from the living room. He glanced up at her and pushed everything off—boxers, too—then stood up straight. He was a wall. A perfect rectangle. A slab. She walked back to him on the balls of her feet, one arm curled under her breasts, one carrying the box. Enoch caught her by the waist and pulled her into him, bending over her, kissing. She’d waited her whole life for this, to be with him like this. To stand in his arms, swaying. Enoch kissed her mouth and her cheeks. He put his hand on the box. “Is this self-explanatory?”
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“I can do it.”
“It’s not attractive. It’s like a hypodermic needle.”
“Fine.” He kissed her. “You do it. Do it.”
She lingered, nuzzling against him. “This is very good,” she said.
“What?”
“This whole thing you’ve got going on, from the floor to the ceiling.”
He beamed down at her. He pulled her back onto the bed. Then up toward the headboard. Corinne opened the box and took out one of the tampon-shaped packages. “Don’t watch,” she said.
Enoch sighed and lay back on the pillow. His toes hung off the end of her bed. His cock was full. The spermicide came in an applicator, with a plunger. Corinne had used it before, lots. With condoms. It was fine. She shot it in and dropped the plastic pieces and the box over the side of the bed, then clambered back over to Enoch and leaned over him. “Okay…”
He opened his eyes, getting his arms around her shoulders. “Okay…” He kissed her. He tasted like … like he’d been licking his fingers. Time stopped. But not in the usual way. Corinne wanted him so bad that the rules of physics didn’t apply to her anymore. Enoch was saying something. She licked his bottom lip.
“Right?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“I said, this is just the beginning for us, it doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Corinne took his entire lip in her mouth, sucking on it. She lay on her back, pulling him onto her.
Enoch’s hand went between her legs again, his knuckles rubbing over her clit. “I need some direction…”
“I want you inside me.”
“Will that…”
“That’s what I want. Please, Enoch. I want you.”
“Corinne…” He pushed his fingers down again. And in.
Corinne spread her legs. “I want you.”
Enoch hunched over her. He pulled his fingers out and took hold of his cock, pushing into her. Corinne took a deep breath and reached for the top of his head.
Time didn’t stop—it spun around her.
She was lying in her bed, with Enoch Miller holding himself over her. She was lying on his mother’s couch. His father’s couch. She felt full. She was lying in her own bed, in her own place. It was dark. She was wet. She was full. She was eighteen. Her underwear were hanging from one knee. Enoch Miller was squeezing the back of her thigh. He was holding himself over her. His hair was in his eyes. Wine dark. Cherry brown in the light from the hall. In the light from the grandfather clock. Corinne was on her back. Her legs were open. Enoch Miller was inside of her. She felt a pinch. She felt full. She didn’t feel much of anything at all. She was on her back. Enoch Miller’s big body on top of her. Enoch Miller’s thick cock pushing into her. She was eighteen. She was thirty-two. She was a fool for him. She wanted this, she’d take it.
Enoch rocked his hips into her. “Corinne,” he said, “Corinne…”
Enoch. Enoch Miller. Enoch.
“Gorgeous girl,” he said, rocking. Rocking. Grounding her. This was different from before, this was better—everything about this moment was more substantial.
“Enoch,” she said.
“Corinne, I love you.”
She tried to wind her fingers in his hair, but it kept slipping away. Her voice kept catching in an “m” sound in the back of her throat. Enoch leaned on one elbow and reached for her leg, holding it up with his hand behind her knee. He pushed deeper. (It was still just pushing. Corinne would never know what to make of it.) Her “m”s were getting more urgent. She couldn’t come like this, but she still felt frenzied. Wanton.
Enoch was right there. Watching her. Panting on her. She looked up into his eyes. She held his head. His eyelids came down, and his hips rocked harder. And then he was pushing away from her, kneeling up, pulling himself out, looking a little panicked.
For a second, she worried that he’d stop. Out of politeness. Or embarrassment.
But he looked down at her, and his lids dropped, and his hand kept pumping. He finished on Corinne’s stomach, groaning her name.