Richard doesn’t rush.

He keeps me on my back, knees pressed high and wide against my chest, and fucks me with long, deep strokes that make the headboard knock softly against the wall. Every thrust drags over the place that makes my vision blur. His mouth stays close to mine—sometimes kissing, sometimes just breathing the same air—while his eyes never leave my face.

“Look at me,” he says when I try to turn my head. “I want to see you when you understand this is permanent.”

I look. The morning light catches the silver at his temples, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the absolute certainty in...