Page 82 of One Adult, Please

"Yes anyway. Whatever the question is, the answer is yes, unless the question is 'should we invite Gregory,' in which case absolutely not."

"Grace."

"Joel, I swear to god if you ask me if I'm sure, I'm going to throw myself into the shark tank."

Joel laughs. It's the first time I've heard that sound from him. And I want to make it happen again and again and again until he forgets he was ever a person who didn't laugh.

"You're a lot," he says. "I like it."

"You do?"

His hands slip under my hoodie. Find skin. I shiver. His palms slide up my sides. Over my ribs. His thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts. I arch into his hands and my head tips back and hits the acrylic.

"Ow."

"You okay?"

"Fine. Great. The wall attacked me but I'm fine. Keep doing the thing with your hands."

He smiles against my neck. I feel the curve of his lips against my skin. His mouth traces down my throat. Finds my collarbone. His hands push my hoodie up and I help, pulling it over my head and tossing it somewhere, I don't care where, I don't care about anything except the way Joel is looking at me.

"You're beautiful," he says.

"You're overdressed," I counter.

His shirt comes off. I help. My fingers are clumsy on the buttons, and I miss one button twice before Joel's hands cover mine and he does it himself.

"I could have gotten it," I say.

"You were struggling."

"I was building suspense."

His chest is bare now and I put my hands on it. There's a scar on his ribs I want to ask about and I want so many things, I want them all at once.

I kiss his chest. His shoulder. The curve where his neck meets his collarbone. He makes a sound, and his hands find my waist and pull me against him. I can feel exactly how much he wants this pressing against my stomach and my knees buckle a little.

"Down," I say. "We should... there are benches. The benches are there. We should use the benches."

"The benches are five feet long."

"We'll improvise."

We move toward the bench. I trip over my own discarded hoodie. Joel catches my elbow. I sit on the bench. He stands in front of me, light framing him like a saint in a very inappropriate stained glass window.

"Come here," I say, and I reach for his belt buckle.

The belt buckle is a disaster. It's some kind of military-grade tactical nightmare, all metal and loops and mechanisms. I fumble with it. I fail. I fumble again.

"Who designed this? Who looked at this buckle and said yes, this is the buckle I want between me and my pants?"

"Here," he says, and his hands replace mine, and the buckle opens immediately because Joel's hands know how to operate things.

His pants go. I'm still on the bench, looking up at him stripped down to boxer briefs that are doing absolutely nothing to hide how much he wants this. The line of his hips. The muscle definition that comes from years of hauling equipment and fixing things that weigh more than I do. The trail of dark hair that starts below his navel and disappears under the waistband. I want to follow it with my mouth and that thought makes my whole body flush hot.

"You're staring," he says.

"I'm appreciating. There's a difference."