He shouldn't have been thinking about her. But he had to think about something and he'd run through lists of memorized texts in every effort to remain unresponsive to what was happening to his body. Thinking about his books and his writings and the Prussian succession in 1807 and the resulting unrest did nothing to stop him feeling the pain.

He remembered the last time they'd been together, tucked away in a corner room, away from the prying eyes of a mentor and a brother. He remembered the scent of her hair, the feeling of its short strands as he gripped them in his fist, tugging at it, earning groans and yips and sharp intakes of pain, and a hoarse voice begging for more. Her mouth as it moved over his lips, his neck, nipping his ear between her teeth, seeking, sating. He remembered the feeling of her hands gripping his sides, his back, her hands running through his hair and her short nails sinking into his flesh and leaving scratches and purple marks on his skin. He remembered those same hands and fingers reaching for him, gripping him, her movements sure and rough, and how his own fingers had mirrored that passion in her, making her cry out his name.

He remembered the taste of her, above and below, remembered the heat as her tongue probed his. She kissed with abandon, not afraid to take what she wanted or demand more from him. He was only happy to oblige.

That last time, in the cries from her first pleasure he made a different decision from usual, and pulled his fingers away, kissing her temple lightly and moving her hands gently from him.

He touched her carefully, not marking her skin with bruises from his hands or his mouth, his touch ghosting over her as if she would disappear like smoke under his hands. He traced the curve of her hip, her breast, the slender shape of her neck, up to cup her head and pulled her back, forced the kisses to slow down, forced them to slow down. The last time they were together was the first time he'd demanded they stretch the moment. She'd hesitated, used to their usual tempo, used to the demanding touch of his skin to hers—used to desperation in their kisses. He'd pulled her hands back from his and moved them to behind his head, and had whispered softly, "Let me…" and finished the sentence by ghosting his lips over hers, unable to say what he wanted to be to her.

For the first time, that last time, he'd worshiped her, his kisses chaste, his hands caressing, sometimes picking up tempo and revving her up before slowing again, until she was shaking, taut with pressure from anticipation. He refused to let her touch him, so she made due by running her hands through his hair, running her fingers over the back of his neck and dipping into the space between his shoulders, never going lower.

When they finally joined, she shook around him and screamed, and he followed soon after, her name a prayer.

Their moments were always over too soon for him, and sometimes he liked to think they were too short for her. They fucked like they wouldn't live to see tomorrow; he wouldn't call it making love. He wasn't supposed to love her; even calling the sex "making love" would put it into dangerous perspective.

But the last time they were together, the first time he'd gone slowly—she had whispered the words he'd desperately wanted to hear since this backroom affair had started…and he'd kissed them away, knowing he should never say them back.

He shouldn't have been thinking about her. He should have been shutting his heart away. Only that could make the torture he now experienced more bearable. (It would be a lie to say it was bearable.) But instead, he remembered stolen moments, longing, and the scent of her hair. And for now, if not always, he remained Lavi.