“My painting looks even worse this way,” she said later, slouched in the chair, her breathing rough and little muscles quivering in her legs and abdomen. The paintbrush lay several feet away, sopping paint into a discarded newspaper.

“You don’t sound terribly disappointed,” I said. She burbled laughter. She looked relaxed and peaceful and I loved it. I kissed the inside of her thigh, felt the quaking become a little stronger.

“Again?” She laughed. “You really like this, don’t you?”

“I like to make you happy,” I said. My cheeks started burning. I hadn’t meant to say it.

She just laughed. “Sappy bastard.” I felt her fingers in my hair, and I looked up at her. I saw many things in her eyes. I smiled. She returned the smile, and I could sense her thought: press my face against her, let me continue. It was in the set of her face and the tension of her fingers in my hair and the shifting of her hips moving to meet me halfway and—

I closed my eyes. “You need to get back to painting.”