I try not to think about how long it's been since I've been kissed like this. It's not that hard since I don't think I have ever been kissed like this.

Not once.

Not in my entire life.

His lips are so soft, so open and yielding. They give when I press my own against them. They come when I suck them inside. His mouth is wet and warm and tastes just as good as it did last night. But he kisses quick and tender – one, two, three times – and then he whispers my name. And all I can think is, This, this…so much this.

It's impossible, really, that something can be this good.

My mind races.

My heart flies.

And I'm pulling him over me, on top of me…just wordlessly begging, begging, begging him not to stop. Wanting so much for this feeling not to end.

I can't remember when I've felt this free, this light – even with the full weight of his body is pressed against me.

But he slows.

He stops.

He rolls us over until we are on our sides again, facing each other with panting breaths and blurry eyes.

"Is something wrong?" I ask. I don't really know what else to say.

He reaches across and touches my face.

I hadn't realized how much I craved the contact.

"Does it look like something's wrong?"

"No."

"Does it feel like something's wrong?"

"No."

"Then nothing is wrong."

We stay like this for a long time – not speaking – just touching each other with curious, exploring hands. Everything about him is soft and warm, especially the skin on his neck. I love the way presses his head against my hand, squeezing me. Almost like a cat who wants you to touch them, but they can't stand it because it feels too good.

"Why are you here?" he asks gently.

I don't mean to tense up, but I do.

I don't want to pull away, but it's a reflex. It's something I can't control.

"I don't want to talk about that."

The tone of my voice in final, but still he pushes.

"You can talk to me, you know?"

And for a split second, I think I can. I think I can tell him about everything that led me to this place. Like, it would just be so easy. I could just unburden myself. But my burdens are not his burdens. He clearly has his own baggage to carry.

"It's not that I don't want to tell you," I say, knowing it's mostly a lie. I don't want to lie, so I offer him a truth. "I'm afraid you'll think… I mean, what if you think I'm crazy?"

His laugh is loud and big and warm. And it melts the layer of ice that had begun to form again.

"You're not serious, right?"

I nod my head.

"I'm absolutely serious."

"Do you know how I know that you're not crazy?"

"How?" I ask. Like there's really a way for him to know.

"Because you're here," he says, motioning to the room around us. "Some ridiculously overpriced resort that just happens to offer yoga and meditation instead of cocktails and lounge chairs. If you were really crazy, I assure you that you wouldn't be here. You'd be somewhere with white walls instead of purple."

"Lavender," I correct him. I don't know why.

"Lavender," he repeats. He reached out and touches the exposed skin of my chest. "If you were really crazy, I wouldn't be allowed in your room, and I wouldn't be able to touch you like this."

He finds my pulse with his index and middle fingers. He presses against it, and I can feel my heartbeat.

"Are you crazy?" he whispers.

"No."

"Are you nervous?"

"A little."

He pulls me against him and rolls us back over. My legs straddle his waist, his hands slide just under my t-shirt. I press my hands next to his head and lean in to kiss him, but before my mouth covers his, he murmurs, "I can work with nervous. And anything else you might be hiding."

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