The door swings shut and the lock turns, a heavy metal sound that seems to echo in the small room. Chris stands with her back to the dresser, the chipped veneer pressing into her palms, watching him pull the curtains closed. The fabric doesn't quite meet in the middle, and a thin slice of parking lot light cuts across the far wall.
He turns. His hands are already reaching for the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin beneath. "Last chance to say no," he says low, and there's something in his voice that isn't just a formality. He means it. He'd stop.
She steps into his space. Her fingers find his belt, the worn leather warm from his body. "I already gave my answer."
The bedsprings groan as her knees hit the mattress. She doesn't remember deciding to move backward, doesn't remember the two steps that put her here, but his hands are still on her shirt and his mouth is close enough that she can feel the heat of his breath.
"You're shaking," he says.
"I'm not."
He smiles, that slow thing that makes her stomach drop. "You are. It's okay." His thumb traces the jut of her hip bone through the thin cotton of her sundress. "I'm nervous too."
"You don't seem nervous."
"I've had more practice hiding it."
She laughs despite herself, a short exhale that breaks the tension in her chest. His hand cups her jaw, tilts her face up, and when he kisses her it's different from the other times. Slower. Like he's tasting something he wants to remember.
His thumb traces her lower lip, pulling it down just slightly. "I've been thinking about this all day."
"Yeah?"
"Couldn't focus on anything. The coffee order, the drive over, the way the light hit your hair when you leaned across the counter." His voice drops. "The sound you made when I kissed your neck last night."
Her breath catches. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything."
He kisses her again, deeper this time, and her hands find the back of his neck, fingers threading through the blonde hair. She can smell him — soap, coffee, the clean sweat of a day spent waiting. Her body is already leaning into his, the weight of her pressing forward like she's trying to disappear into him.
His hand slides down her back, presses at the small of it, pulling her closer. The sundress bunches under his fingers, riding up her thighs as she shifts on the mattress. The bedsprings complain again, and she laughs into his mouth.
"This bed is going to announce us to the whole motel," she murmurs.
"Let them listen."
She pulls back just enough to look at him. The lamplight catches the grey in his stubble, the deep lines around his eyes. He looks tired, she realizes. Not in the moment, but underneath it. Like he's been carrying something heavy for a long time and forgot how to put it down.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm allowed." She traces the line of his jaw, the rough scrape of stubble against her fingertips. "I'm trying to figure you out."
"Good luck." He catches her hand, turns it, presses his mouth to her palm. "I've been trying to figure myself out for forty years. Still working on it."
"That long?"
"Feels longer."
She wants to ask about his wife. The question sits on her tongue, heavy and wrong, but she swallows it. Not now. Not when his mouth is on her wrist, trailing up the inside of her arm, making her forget what she was going to say.
His lips find the crook of her elbow, the sensitive skin there, and she shivers.
"You're sensitive here," he says, not a question.
"Didn't know that."