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Touching her side, I run my palm down her hips and beneath her shorts. She moans as my fingertips slide between her thighs.

“Did you do that for me?” I ask.

Silence. Maybe she doesn’t want to tell me the truth.

“I don’t know why,” she says finally. “Maybe, deep down, I hoped we’d see each other one more time.”

My chest hurts. Head empty, I tug her shorts to her ankles, slipping them off her legs. She moans, even though I’m not touching her yet. My fingers skate over her pussy, and she’s wet—fuck me, she’s soaked and swollen. Heart pounding, I push down the front of my pants and drag her against me, arching her back so I can push into her pussy. Where I fucking belong.

“God,” she whimpers.

One hand on her hip, one moving to rest gently on her throat, I start thrusting. She’s so tight, so perfect, like we were made for each other.

“Mine,” I say, under my breath.

“Hmm?”

Her eyes are shut, head lolled. I kiss her neck and nip her earlobe.

“Mine,” I say, loud enough that she hears me.

Her pussy clenches when I say that word, the word she wanted to hear, even if it’s not true. Even if there’s no pathway to it that I can see tonight. That’s alright. Our pretend world is a better place because she’s in it. All that matters is her skin on mine, her pussy wrapped around my cock, her soft, little moans in the stillness of the room. The firelight on her skin, on her golden hair.

I’ve never been a songwriter, but if I were, she’d be the centerpiece of every verse. Some of my clients write the most gut-wrenching albums about their partners, husbands, wives. I’ve never understood it before. I guess I thought a lot of it was just bullshit, that I was only interested because heartbreak and love sell like nothing else, better than sex.

Now, I get it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

SERENA

The next morning is like the montage in a movie. I wake up to the smell of coffee and his hand running down my side, pulling me close. My eyes crack open. Two mugs sit on the bedside table, steam rising into the early sunlight.

We fucked on the couch, and I fell asleep. I don’t remember him carrying me to bed, but clearly he did.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He pushes his face against the side of my neck. “Hey, sweetheart, how you feeling?”

“Pretty good, after the three orgasms you gave me,” I murmur.

“One more before coffee?”

He moves against me and pulls my leg back the way he did last night. This time, I arch my spine and let him in. Something is different—even from the first time I realized things had changed. Nobody knows where we are, what we’re doing. It makes me feel like he’s…what did he say last night?

Mine.

He slides his hand between my thighs and touches my pussy. I’m soaked and on the edge. It takes a few minutes of fucking and touching me before an orgasm wells up. It’s slow, clear, perfect. He groans, hips stuttering. I smile as our bodies sink into a puddle together. He keeps his face nuzzled into the dip below my ear for a moment, then pulls out and reaches for his coffee as he sits against the headboard. I turn on my back and stretch, spine crackling deliciously.

I’m having the best day of my life. I can already tell.

“What do you want to do for breakfast?” I ask.

His eyes travel down my naked chest and stomach, to where the blanket covers my hips and thighs.

“Guess,” he says.

Rolling my eyes, I sit up and grab my mug. “I’m hungry. You’ve been on me since we got here.”