Slow. Almost so slow that I wasn’t sure either of us could get there, or that I even cared. Our lips were only millimeters apart, sharing breaths and noises and the whispered pleas to Feel that? Do you feel that? I did feel it. I felt every one of his stuttering heartbeats under my palm, and the way his shoulders shook above me. I felt the unformed words on his lips, how he seemed to be trying to say something . . . maybe the same something I’d been skirting around since I snuck into his dark room. Even before that. He didn’t seem to understand what I was asking. I’d never expected it to be so hard to put myself on the line. We’d made love—what felt like the true meaning of the phrase earlier; his skin, my skin, nothing else between us. He called me Hanna at the dinner table. . . . I don’t think anyone had ever said that name out loud in this house before that. And even though Jensen—Will’s best friend—was in the other room, Will had stayed with me to do dishes.
