I wish I could pinpoint why her expression tugs at a tender part of me, what feels off.

It isn’t the way our hands trip over each other in their quest to touch every inch of skin, or the way she digs her fingers into my hair, exhaling in relief when she feels me slip barely inside her. It isn’t the way her head falls back, the way she pushes her breast into my hand, or how her legs spread wide to take more.

But maybe it is in the way she won’t let her eyes hold mine for too long, the way it feels like she’s holding her breath. It’s the same thing I do before I tilt my bike over a steep hill and barrel down.

I ease into her—in, out, in deeper, out a bit more—and she’s with me, fuck I know she is, I can feel it in the rocking of her hips, the curl of her fists in my hair—but the hot film of protectiveness won’t leave me. Every move she makes screams that she’s new to this, that this type of intimacy is different, blissful, and terrifying.

I’ve had sex with many women, and have had loving, intimate sex with some of them, but I’ve never felt for them what I feel for Lola. Still, the depth of the emotion is a relief, not at all disorienting. Last night was the perfect combination of making love and fucking, but here I wouldn’t dare be so rough with her as I’d been. She feels like blown glass in my hands, looking up at me almost as if she needs to know what to do.

So I give her a task. My lips press to her cheek, teeth bared. “Don’t make a sound.”

I feel her exhale in relief against me, and she nods, turning, seeking my mouth, but I pull away.

“Stay quiet, be good, and I’ll kiss you.”

She nods again, quickly, urgently, and it can’t be that simple, but it is. The drifting tension in her eyes is replaced by focus. But now that I’ve said it, there isn’t a thing on this planet or any other I want as much as I want her mouth, open and wet against mine while we fuck.

I fill my hands with her tits, suck at her neck, and grind my body into hers until I feel her sweat under my lips, and she’s tight everywhere.

Growing tighter, still quiet, breaths shallow and sharp.

“That’s it,” I tell her. “I can’t hear you. I can only hear the fucking.”

I love her sounds, but right now her silence means so much more. Her silence and the begging in her eyes is the admission that she needs me to ground her, to help her focus down on this and only this. Not L.A. Not the book she needs to write. I always suspected she looked to me to center her, but to know it so surely right now, when we’re making love, pulls at a tight band in my chest.

Lola’s skin is creamy and pale, even paler against the dark of her hair. Her ponytail has come undone and now strands fall forward over her shoulders, brushing along her nipples, the ends curling over her breasts. A sheen of sweat breaks out on her chest, her upper lip, and around me her cunt squeezes tight . . . she’s close. Her breaths come quicker when I thrust up with just a little more force and I bare my teeth on her jaw, feeling my own control fraying, growling, “Not a sound. Not one fucking sound.”

I find her wrists, draw them behind her back, and plunge so deep, grinding where she likes it. Her mouth goes wide, expression nearly pained, and then it’s like tapping the first domino down and watching in wonder: She squeezes her eyes closed, head back and teeth clenched with the effort it takes to hold in her cries. Around me, her body comes with a series of wild, tight spasms. Lola flushes red and her pulse is a wild animal in her throat—but my girl doesn’t even let free a tiny gasp of air.

Pride swells so fast in my chest I’m covering her mouth with mine, fucking her fast and shallow, and she’s wrestling free, finally crying out at the feel of my tongue on hers. Her hands dig into my hair, eyes open so she can watch me.

“It’s so fucking good.” I hear myself grunt on every shove, the sounds of sex making me harder—the wet slide, skin slapping, the creaking of my desk.

“Fuck!” I can’t help but yell. “Fuck!”

I’m grateful to the traffic on Fifth, the constant bustle of the shop for muting the noise we must be making.

Harder, faster, she’s gasping and clutching me at my neck, nails digging into my skin. Her legs are wrapped around me, sweat making us slippery, and I grip her ass to pull her onto me at the same time I shove as deep as I can, going off with a hoarse yell, in a flurry of wild thrusts. Light bursts behind my closed lids, bliss racing down my spine, tiny explosions of pleasure spreading across the map of my entire body.

I slump against her, pressing my teeth to her neck as my hips slow and eventually stop. It’s a miracle my desk is still in one piece.

Lola catches her breath against me, holding me tight. Her legs don’t let up; she doesn’t want to let me go, and, fuck, I don’t ever want to leave the warmth of her body.

The room is suddenly so quiet, and I can’t seem to pull in enough oxygen. My breaths feel too fast, too loud. Lola slumps forward on my chest and I wrap my arms around her. She feels tiny in my arms: willowy and delicate. I feel like I’m made of nothing but basic instincts—fuck, breathe, sleep—but I manage to remain upright. The pleasure slips away gradually, and I run kisses up her neck, pausing for a breath so I can tell her how fucking good it was.

Before I can get the words started, I stop, listening.

An odd stillness seems to have surrounded us, and I’m hit with a restless awareness: the magnitude of the quiet is nearly dystopian, almost as if the world outside ended while we were in here wildly fucking.

Lola’s eyes meet mine and I know the thought hits us both at the same time.

I close my eyes, waiting for the explosion. “Oh sh—”

Suddenly Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blares from the front of the store. It’s so loud it may as well be playing in the room with us.

I look at Lola, who is still flushed from her orgasm. She claps a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “Oh, my God,” she mumbles.

Motherfucking Joe starts yell-singing along with it: “Demolition woman, can I be your man?”

Finally, I pull out, quickly tying off the rubber and dropping it in the trash bin. Together, we start putting our clothes back on: I pull my pants up my legs, tug my shirt over my head. Lola slides from the desk, straightening her skirt, locating her bra and shirt.

“Television lover, baby, go all night!” Joe sings.

At least four other voices join in for the rest of the chorus.

Lola hooks her bra behind her back, adjusts the straps, and then presses her hands to her face. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

The music dies down and Joe proclaims, “Show thyself, mighty stallion!”

Laughing, I call out, “Shut the fuck up!” I help Lola get her shirt back on as laughter trails through the door.

Pulling her hair into a bun, she says, “I guess that answers that question.”

“The soundproofing in here?” I ask.

She nods, rubbing her face again, but behind it I can see her smile. “Is there a secret way out or are we doomed for a walk of shame?”

This makes me laugh. “Shame? I’ll be strutting. We nearly broke that fucking desk fucking.”

“Seriously.”

I cup her face, kissing her once. “Sorry, pet, we can only escape through that door, right there.”

Lola nods against my hands, eyes holding mine.

“Was it good?” I ask quietly. “Did you like trying to be quiet?”

“So good,” she whispers, stretching to kiss me again. “I don’t want to go to L.A.”

My arms come around her, and I feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “I’m not wild about this plan, either.”

She’s shaking, and I want to look at her face, but she has it determinedly pressed to my shoulder.

“Look at me,” I say. “Let me taste that pretty mouth.”