As the tide ebbs, and I drop back into my body, it's like dropping back into an empty husk. Like I gave myself completely away. I feel a flicker of alarm but have no energy to analyze it.

Blinking my eyes open, I'm relieved to see Emmy. She is there with me, I wasn't left alone. She's reaching up and pulling my face to hers, her mouth opening to mine. I give another slow thrust, not wanting to leave the snug home, even as I'm softening.

For long moments we say nothing, just panting, waiting for the blood to return the oxygen to our brains.

"How did the general do?" I ask when I think I can talk.

She shakes with silent laughter beneath me. "He was a little trigger happy."

I lean up and kiss her nose. "Um, he wasn't the only one. And anyway, that's because he was unprotected and exposed," I say in his defense. "He wasn't used to it."

"Hmm," she says, eyes sparkling with mirth and hands roaming up my back that's damp and cool with sweat. "But he'd already ascertained it wasn't hostile terrain."

"It was a utopia. But it had to be conquered, nonetheless."

"And it was. Thoroughly. He definitely left his mark." Her mouth nips at mine.

I groan. "I guess he earned a promotion. He’s now a four star general."

She scrunches up her nose, and it's cute as fuck. "I need to take a bath."

"Can I watch?" I give her my most hopeful expression.

"You can," she says indulgently like she just gave an ice cream to a toddler. And I adore that she didn't default to self-consciousness. "You can even bathe with me. If you want."

I roll to the side of her, my body instantly missing her warmth, and eye the tub set below the window over my shoulder. "Will we both fit?"

"If we don't, I call first." She leans up on an elbow and purses her lips unapologetically. I can't resist kissing them again. "In fact," she goes on, "can you run it for me while I go to the bathroom?" Then she's shimmying to the edge of the bed and tiptoeing with her legs squeezed together.

I laugh at her and glance at the clock on the side table. "Are you sure you don't want to have a bath in the morning? It's late."

"Ummm. Pretty sure," she answers as I get up and put the plug in the tub and turn on the tap. There's bubble bath on the window sill, and I squeeze a healthy amount into the running water. Yep, I doubt we’d both fit.

Emmy exits the bathroom in a white robe, her hair piled on top of her head. Her cheeks are still flushed.

"I'll make it quick," she says.

"It's fine. No rush." I'm feeling weird suddenly. Out of sorts. I step past her toward the bathroom and try not to notice the small frown line between her eyebrows. "Just going to brush my teeth," I say.

In the bathroom, I shut the door then lean against it and pinch the bridge of my nose. I'm starting to feel claustrophobic. I think. I don't know what I'm feeling. But I no longer have a handle on things. What seemed like a good idea earlier, now seems messy. Complicated. I hate complicated. And I can't leave. I'm here for the night. I guess that's where the feeling of claustrophobia is coming from.

Immediately my brain defaults to figuring out the worst-case scenario so I can mitigate the risk. The problem is I don't know what's on the table. What am I risking? What are the potential gains? What's the guaranteed return on investment?

I splash my face with cold water.

Gains, I have to base on experience: fun, anticipation, sexual release. Laughter. Quite literally the most intense sexual experience of my life.

Risk: She becomes clingy. But she doesn't seem the type, and I negate the thought. Risk that I hurt her? I'd hate that, but somehow I know she'd hide it from me. Protect me from knowing. Something inside my chest flinches at that.

Return on investment: I enjoy my last night and day in Charleston and potentially have a standing arrangement here every time I have to come back. I could more than live with that.

I brush my teeth.

"Trystan?" Emmy's voice calls from the bedroom.

"Yeah?"

"Can you come out here please?"

"One second." I spit and rinse and look at myself. My eyes are bright like I'm drunk. I blink, shake my head, and open the door.

Emmy is standing up and pulling a towel around her, and I feel stupidly disappointed. I missed her in the bath because I had to give myself a fucking pep talk.

"I missed the show," I say and my voice is rough.

She smiles at me, but it seems like she knows I freaked out. "You sure did." Tendrils of her hair are curling from steam, and her skin is shiny and slick from water. She reaches over and grabs her robe, slipping it on before removing the towel wrapped around her body. She's hiding herself from me.

"What did you need?" I ask.

"For you to come out here and realize I'm not going to bite you."

I laugh uncomfortably as I root through my bag for a clean pair of boxers, grateful I used Emmy's washer and dryer earlier. I was definitely on my last set of clean clothes.

"Trystan."

"Yep."

"I know you're kind of freaking out. I'd be an idiot not to realize you don't normally do this."

"Do what?" I say as if I have no idea what she's talking about.

"Spend the night with someone you just slept with."

I'm about to deny it but stop.

"I realized that at the hotel." She lifts a shoulder and bends over to use the towel to dry each of her legs. Then she lifts a foot and balances it on the edge of the bath, turquoise toes curling over the rim. She reaches for a bottle of lotion. "But here's something you may not have realized. I don't do this either."

I laugh humorlessly. "I knew that. Not the same thing."

"Probably not," she says, eyes flashing briefly at my tone, and smooths cream up and down her legs from her ankle up to her thighs and then her butt. I swallow. She changes legs and repeats. The scent of the lotion finally reaches me. It's her signature scent. I inhale deeply, feeling the stirring of arousal, remembering the first time I smelled the concentration in her sheets and heard her lose control. Now I've seen it in person. I know she flushes head to toe, arches her back. I can't remember if she closed her eyes or the exact sound she made. Next time I'll—Christ, that went sideways fast.

"But I'm not sleeping on the couch,” she says. “Or going back to Armand's—"

"I'd never—"

She laughs. "I know. You're a good guy. You normally remove yourself, don't you?" She somehow manages to finish the contortion of lotioning up her body underneath her robe. "I think we're more alike than you think." She looks at me squarely and lifts an eyebrow in challenge. "But how about you don't sleep on the couch either?"

"It's uncomfortable to sleep on anyway." I rub a thumb over my lip.

"Is not," she argues, offended.

"It is." I turn to climb in the bed.

"What do you think you're doing?" Her question stops me.

"What?"

She rolls her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. "That's my side."

I straighten, hands up in surrender. "My bad."

"Scoot." She shoos me past her, and I go around the bed, shaking my head in amusement. I don't know how she does it, but my earlier flight response is nowhere to be found. I'd rather stay here and argue with Emmy Dubois than be anywhere else right now.

"I hope you don't mind if I sleep naked?" Her hand releases the hair tied up on her head so it comes cascading to her shoulders. Then she unbelts the loosely-tied robe and lets it fall to her feet before lifting the duvet and climbing in. "Are you just going to stand there? Tuna will be out of a job, you'll catch all the bugs with that open mouth of yours."

She rolls onto her side away from me and reaches out a long toned arm to the bedside lamp I'd turned on earlier and plunges us into darkness.

I smile in the dark and climb under her covers. I'm probably going to freak out again in the morning, but for now I'll just go with it.