You think we can afford fucking caviar goes unsaid, chiefly because Richie's mouth has dried up and he's got his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. He doesn't notice until it happens that he's got the sketchbook in his hand because Carmy has let go of it, and then he has to figure out where to put it because Carmy's slid kind of sideways and landed in his lap somehow, a heavy weight with his ass planted it feels like right on top of his dick.

"What is, what is this, what are you doing," he's saying, somewhere, from a distance. He lets the sketchbook go, hears it thump onto the floor, whoops, but he's too busy to care, putting both hands on Carmy's thighs and looking up at him. Baffled, terrified, already viciously turned on by the possibilities starting to unfold.

"What are you doing? Is this what we're doing now? Cousin? Is this what we're doing?" God, he needs to shut up. "Carmy, what are you doing?"