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of a clay jar. His skin was so warm I thought a little of the sun must still be in it, that I could see it letting off light if I looked close enough. I kissed the darkest bruise on his back, just below his left shoulder blade. I’d meant it as kindness, more out of gratitude for him pulling me from the cold than out of desire for
the heat of his body, but I felt the flinch of his muscle under my mouth. He knew.
    I did the same with his chest, kissing a patch of blue over his heart as though it would veil the longing. But I realized my hands were on his jeans, and wondered if the tensing in his thigh muscles was from that same desire or only because he could feel the chill of my palms through the fabric.
    The inside of me spun hot as a new star, but my skin was still so cold I felt like I was cracking whenever I moved. I shuddered with the ache of coming back to life. It began below my collarbone and ended with a rush of warmth and wetness between my legs. With every new scent I picked up on him—the ash bark, the green herbs, the jacket he must have inherited from his father or uncle—I wanted him in that new way.
    The feeling came back to my fingers like light across water. I kissed him hard enough that the breath at the back of his throat deepened to a low, quick groan. His mouth tasted like copper rock salt.
    He pulled the quilt around my shoulders. “No,” he said. “ No ahora. No porque usted tiene frío .” Not now. Not because you’re cold.
    “ No es porque tengo frío, ” I said. “ Es porque soy vivo .” Not because I’m cold. Because I’m alive.
    It must have been enough of an answer, because he kissed me, one forearm under the small of my back. He pulled my panties off with the same urgency of tearing my wet clothes away. He unhooked my bra as if it were made of ice and it would kill me if it stayed on my skin.
    The áloe had brought most of the sensation back to my fingers, but they were just numb enough that I struggled to unbutton his jeans. He was patient, even as he grew hard against my hands. I got his pants down around his knees and kicked them the rest
of the way off his legs. My hands found the warmth of his bare thighs and then strayed to his erection.
    He didn’t thrust against my palm, but he moved a little toward me, letting me know he didn’t mind the cold. I couldn’t understand it, how any man would let a woman with so much cold in her fingers touch him where it could hurt him most. But maybe there was enough heat in his body that he liked it, his nerves responding to the sudden change. He got harder against my hand. When I offered my mouth to his, he took it.
    The gash on his lip reopened from kissing. Without thinking, I tongued the trickle of blood. He startled. I stopped and gasped, afraid I’d stung him, but he breathed in with a soft noise that told me he liked it.
    The heat of his body spread over me. I was a shimmer of cold sand, and he was the salt of a warm ocean, turning my million rough grains back into flesh. I cried out at the pleasure of it. He did not startle again, not until I opened my legs and guided him into me. He set his teeth like the feeling surprised him, like he’d never felt it before. I didn’t ask; it would’ve been cruel. I could see the desire in the tensing of his muscles, but there was something chaste in the agave green of his eyes. It made me think I should handle him gently. I couldn’t. I was still too cold. My fingers could not touch him delicately. They were too hungry for his warmth.
    “It’s inside me,” I said.
    “What is?” he asked.
    “ El frío, ” I said. The cold .
    He pushed deeper into me, reaching that last part that was iced over and armored in snowflakes. The same finger that had lit the candle touched me until I felt like a close star. He was all warmth and salt. I bit his shoulder, and even there he tasted like rock salt. I opened to take him in. The black of his eyes flinched
as the inside of me pulsed around him.