I flatten my hand against her bare stomach and flick the light switch next to the door. It's pitch black now, the only light coming from under the door. "I need to feel you, Lucy."

Her body relaxes against mine. I settle my hands on her legs, trying not to rush things, but I want inside her. Bad. She moans again when my hands reach higher and skim her ass. I pull her panties aside and run my finger across her warm center. She's already wet, making it easy to slide my fingers inside her. She's breathing heavy. Almost panting. "Fuck, Cam."

I work my fingers in and out slowly; the way I know she likes it. She drops her head forward, banging it against the door.

"Don't stop," she moans. But I wouldn't dare. She starts to tighten around my fingers and I know she's close. I shut my eyes and imagine her face, her eyes widening and rolling higher. A bead of sweat across her hairline and her bottom lip between her teeth, the way she does when she's about to come.

"Please don't stop," she says again, a little louder this time. I reach my free hand up and pull her top down to release a breast. I palm her nipple softly.

"Fuck, Cam."

My breaths are short, coming out in spurts, just like hers.

"Make me come, please," she begs. "Please."

I release her breast and unzip my jeans.

"No," she squeaks. "We can't fuck. I don't want to run through the mall to clean up with cum dripping down my leg!"

I let out a frustrated grunt and try to think. "I'll pull out," I tell her. I look around, my eyes more used to the dark space, and reach into a box on the shelf next to me. I grab a promo shirt from the pile and set it aside. "I'll blow into a shirt." I kick a full box of games against the door and tell her to stand on it. She's too short for me to take her this way. It's the reason we have a footstool in her shower back home.

She steps on it, no questions asked.

"Hands against the door, baby."

The entire time, my fingers continue their work inside her.

"Yes, babe," she obliges. I don't know if it's a game for her, but I love taking control. And I know that she gets off on it when I do.

She stands with her legs spread, her hands flat on the door and her ass sticking out, waiting for me.

I pull down her top and free both of her breasts, touching and grabbing them rougher than before. And then I pull my fingers out and let out a groan when I'm inside her.

I try to go slow, try to take care of her first, but she's moving herself on me saying, "Harder, Cam, faster. I need it."

So I give it to her. Harder. Faster.

Within minutes she's trembling, panting 'I love you' over and over. I can feel her sweat forming on her tits. As soon as I know the last wave has taken her, I pull out and furiously jerk off into the shirt I prepared earlier. I start to feel it building and let out an uncontrolled sound. She turns and pulls my face to hers, knowing that nothing gets me off quicker than her kissing me. I laugh into her mouth as I come, trying to remember the last time I jerked off into an item of clothing.

When we're done, I flick the light on, trash the shirt and start to peel the tape off a box.

"What are you doing?" she says, adjusting her clothes.

"Working," I tell her. "I don't want to get fired."

-LUCY-

Chris sniffs us when we walk out of the store room. "I hate you guys."

I settle on a beanbag in front of the consoles they have set up in the corner of the store, and pull out my e-reader.

Cam goes about his business and stocks shelves and reprices things. Every time he walks past, he kisses me—a different spot on my face each time.

I stay in my place and wait for them to close up for the night. "Ready, babe?" His hand's out waiting for me to take.

"For you? Always."

***

"I made you something," he says, glancing at me from behind the steering wheel.

My eyes light up and I throw my hand out squealing, "Gimme gimme gimme!"

He narrows his eyes and scrunches his nose. "What the hell did you just say?" he laughs. "You know the deal."

My shoulders sag with my sigh. I close my eyes and set my hands, palms up, on my lap. I hear the unfolding of paper, one of my favorite sounds in the world. And then he places it on my hands.

Ever since we got to college he'd been sketching more. Not just lines and floor plans, but actual drawings.

"Okay," he says warily. "Open."

I peer down at the sketch. It's of me sitting in the beanbag reading. His work has gotten so much better since he started taking the right classes in college. I've told him that I want to wallpaper my room with them, but he doesn't want anyone seeing them. He says he's uncomfortable with it, and he doesn't think it's good enough to share. But he's wrong. They're beyond amazing. He doesn't do it often, so when he does it's like a major reward for me. But the best part—or maybe the worst—is that he only ever draws me. I'm his art, so he says.

"I love it," I tell him, picking it up to examine it closer.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, babe. It's one of the best so far."

"I need to work on my rendering," he says.

"It looks perfect to me."

"That's because my source is perfect."

I drop my chin to my chest to hide my smile. Five years on and his words still have the ability to make me blush. To make me fall in a new type of love, every single day.