Chapter 17: The New Equation

The bed had always been Wren's. Now it was theirs, and that changed the gravity of the room.

Marcus noticed it after dinner, while he was trying to find a place for his desk lamp. The bed looked the same—white linen, too many pillows, a quilt the color of dried lavender—but it occupied the space differently now. It was no longer a piece of furniture Wren slept in and he occasionally shared. It was the place where their lives would converge at the end of every day. The thought made his chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety.

Wren came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wearing a robe the color of moss and rubbing her hair with a towel. She stopped when she saw him standing there.

"You're staring at the bed," she said.

"I'm thinking about frames of reference."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"It's what I call everything." He set the lamp down. "I was thinking that the bed is the same object it was yesterday, but its function has changed."

Wren walked over to him. Her hair was damp, her face clean of makeup, and she smelled like the bath salts she made herself—something with rosemary and something else he couldn't name. "And what function is that?"

"Ours."

She went very still. The towel in her hands stopped moving. "Marcus."

"I didn't mean—" He stopped. "Actually, I did mean it. But I didn't mean to pressure you. We've only just moved in. There's no schedule."

"There's always a schedule with you."

"Not for this." He reached out and took the end of the towel, helping her dry a strand of hair she had missed. "For this, I have no idea what I'm doing."

Wren smiled. "That's reassuring."

"Is it?"

"It means you're not treating me like a problem to solve." She let him take the towel from her and set it aside. "Do you want to?"

The question was direct, the way all her important questions were. Marcus felt his heartbeat in his throat.

"Yes," he said. "Very much. But only if you do. Only if tonight is the right night, and not because we moved in or because of the article or because of anything except that we both want to."

Wren looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached up and undid the tie of her robe.

"I want to," she said.

The robe slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the floor. Underneath she wore a thin camisole and nothing else. Marcus forgot how to breathe.

"You're going to need to say more words than that," Wren said, though her voice had gone soft.

"I don't have more words. I have—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "Nervousness. And want. And a strong preference for not doing anything wrong."

Wren stepped closer. She took his hand and placed it on her waist, over the camisole. Her skin was warm through the fabric. "You won't do anything wrong. Not if you listen. Not if you ask."

"I can do that."

"I know." She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was a slow kiss, unhurried, the kind that said they had all night. "Ask me."

"Can I take this off?" His fingers touched the hem of her camisole.

"Yes."

He lifted it over her head, careful not to tangle her hair. When she was bare in front of him, he did not look away. He looked, and looked, and let himself want without trying to measure or qualify it.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"Thank you." She reached for the buttons of his shirt. "Your turn."

He helped her. His hands were not steady. Wren noticed, and kissed each knuckle as she undid the cuffs. "Nervous Marcus is my favorite Marcus," she whispered.

"I'm not nervous. I'm optimally aroused."

She laughed, bright and surprised, and some of the tension broke. "That is the least sexy thing anyone has ever said to me."

"I'm going to get better at this."

"You don't need to be good. You need to be here."

"I'm here."

"Show me."

They finished undressing each other with the awkward tenderness of people who had never done it before and were determined to memorize every moment. Marcus's shirt fell. Wren's hands found his belt. When there were no more barriers, she took his hand and led him to the bed.

The sheets were cool. Her body was warm. Marcus lay beside her and ran a tentative hand down her side, learning the shape of her—her ribs, the curve of her hip, the softness of her thigh. Wren made a small sound and turned into him, fitting herself against his chest.

"Tell me what you like," he said.

"This. Your hands. Slow." She guided his palm to her breast. "Here."

He touched her carefully, then less carefully as she responded. Her breath changed. Her body arched into his touch. It was the most intoxicating feedback loop he had ever experienced—action, response, adjustment, response again. No data had ever been this immediate or this true.

"More?" he asked.

"Yes."

He kissed her throat, her collarbone, the hollow beneath her ear. She tasted like bath salts and skin and something uniquely Wren. When he reached her breast and took her into his mouth, her fingers tangled in his hair and held on.

"Marcus."

He looked up. "Too much?"

"No. Don't stop."

He didn't.

Time became strange after that. It stretched and compressed according to the rhythm of her breathing. He learned that she liked the inside of her wrist kissed. He learned that she gasped when he scraped his teeth lightly over her hip. He learned that she laughed when he tried to unhook her bra before remembering she wasn't wearing one.

"You're overthinking," she said, breathless.

"I'm categorizing."

"Stop categorizing." She rolled him onto his back and straddled him, and Marcus's ability to think in complete sentences ended. "Just feel."

She leaned down and kissed him, deep and slow, her hair falling around them like a curtain. He could feel her against him, warm and wet, and the effort of not rushing was the hardest thing he had ever done.

"Condom," he managed.

"Nightstand."

He reached over, fumbling in the drawer until he found the small box she had placed there—he did not ask when, he was too grateful. He tore the packet open with fingers that refused to cooperate. Wren took it from him.

"Let me."

Her hand on him was almost too much. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

"Okay?" she asked.

"Yes. Please. Now."

She guided him into her slowly, so slowly he could feel every inch of the surrender. They both stopped breathing for a moment when he was fully inside her. Wren's forehead rested against his. Her eyes were closed.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi."

"You can move."

He did, cautiously at first, finding a rhythm that matched the rise and fall of her breath. She moved with him, her hips rolling in a way that made his vision blur at the edges. He had thought sex would be overwhelming because of sensation, but it was overwhelming because of her—because of the way she looked at him, open and unguarded, because of the small sounds she made that told him he was doing this right, because of the impossible intimacy of being inside the person he loved.

"Is this good?" he asked, because he had to know.

"Marcus." She laughed, breathless. "Yes. It's good. It's very good. Stop asking and keep doing exactly that."

He kept doing exactly that.

At some point she shifted, pressing down harder, taking more of him, and the angle changed. Wren's breath caught. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

"There," she gasped. "Right there."