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"Remind me to thank Lena."

I tear a packet open with my teeth and roll the condom down his length myself, slow, watching his face while I do it. His eyes never leave mine. The second I'm done he's on me, pushing me back into the pillows, settling his weight between my thighs.

He notches the head against my entrance and holds there, braced on his forearms, and looks down at me.

"Mona."

Just my name. Like it means something.

Then he pushes into me, one long thick stroke, and I cry out. He stretches me so full I can't think. He stays still, buried to the hilt, and presses his forehead to mine while I adjust.

"Good girl," he whispers. "You take me so good."

My pussy clenches around him at the words, and he groans. He starts to thrust, slow and deep, rolling his hips so his pelvis grinds against my clit every time he bottoms out. My nails dig into his back. He kisses me, messy and hungry, and I taste myself on his tongue.

Then he pulls out and flips me over.

I squeak. He hauls my hips up onto my knees, and slides back into me from behind, and the new angle makes me see stars. His hands grip my ass, spreading me, and he fucks me harder now, the headboard knocking the wall, skin slapping skin. One hand slides around my hip and finds my clit.

"Again," he says in my ear. "Come for me again."

"I can't."

"You can."

I can. It builds fast this time, sharp and wild, his fingers circling, his cock driving deep, and when I break I scream into the pillow. He follows a heartbeat later. He slams into me one last time and holds there with a deep rough groan, his whole body shaking against my back.

We collapse in a tangle of sweat and quilts. He pulls me against his chest and wraps an arm around my waist, and I lie there listening to his heart slow down.

"Seven years?" I whisper.

"Since the divorce." His fingers trace lazy circles on my hip. "She wanted a bigger life. I didn't."

"Do you miss her?"

"No. I missed this." His arm tightens. "I didn't know it until tonight."

I stare at the ceiling. My throat is tight.

"I was supposed to get married three years ago," I say. "I planned the whole thing. Hand lettered the place cards myself. He left three weeks before and took the dog."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he presses his lips to the back of my neck.

"His loss," he says.

Two words. They crack something open in my chest I thought was bolted shut.

* * *

Saturday morning I'm on the festival grounds at six with my clipboard, my radio, and a hickey under my collar.

The field fills up fast. Bigger crowd than yesterday, somehow. The Denver news station sent a camera. Mabel's already sold out of biscuits twice and sent Hank back to the diner for more flour.

My phone buzzes.

Lena:

Well???? How's small town life