The beads are slick and cool against her breasts, the cloth rough to the touch, abrasive, even. She focuses on those feelings, on his gentle hands.
They are quiet and careful with each other, so quiet and careful that sometimes she thinks she is dreaming. Maybe she is dreaming. She can't be sure.
She never lets herself think about the others, or the consequences that might result. Only him, only his hands and his body and the beads, slick and cool on her skin.
In the morning, she notes with a tiny smile that he doesn't ask that question anymore.