"Stop."
It comes out as a whisper.
"Eli. Stop."
He goes still.
His mouth is at my throat. His hand is on my belly. He does not take either away for one long second and I feel him breathe, hot, against my skin.
Then he steps back.
I turn around in the small space between his body and the sink and I keep my arms folded across my chest because I am not going to give him my body and my exposure both. I look at his face.
His eyes are dark. The careful neutral is gone. Whatever has been under it for weeks is on his face now and I do not have a name for it. Hunger. Frustration. Something older?
He is looking at me the way a man looks at his wife and the fact of it makes my chest do something so painful I cannot breathe through it.
He opens his mouth and closes it.
Then he turns. He step
