“Whose fault is that?” She slides on top of me, grinning as her face hovers over mine.
“The bed frame’s fault. I’ll lube it, then pull it away from the wall. It’s too close.”
“Lube …” she giggles.
“You and your dirty mind. It’s a lubricant. It also protects against rust.”
“Well, this bed is no doubt a little rusty.”
“What does that mean?”
She dips her head and teases my lips. “Nothing.”
“Has it been a while since you’ve had sex?”
She blushes. “No. I had it like … twenty minutes ago. Am I that forgettable?”
“Well, I’m not great with words. I dropped out of school before learning all of them. But I’d say you’re the opposite of forgettable. So unforgettable? Memorable?”
June grins.
“Feel free to share better words,” I say.
She slowly shakes her head. “Your vocabulary is just fine. I don’t need to finish your sentences or speak for you.”
“You like me just how I am?”
“Yes,” she whispers before kissing me.
I tell myself she will feel this way after I tell her about my time in prison, but I don’t totally believe it. Everyone has their limits. If I told her I was a pedophile (I wasn’t), there’s no way she’d shrug and kiss me like it was no big deal.
“What time do you work?” I ask, rolling her onto her back, then kissing a trail down her body.
“One.”
“Perfect.” Half my body hangs off the end of the bed as I settle between her legs. “We have time for a little low-key sex before I run and grab that WD-40.”
She giggles, fingers in my hair. “Low-key. Like lazy?”
“Like”—I kiss her inner thigh just to watch her squirm—“low-key as in you shouldn’t be so loud this time.”
“I’m not loud.”
I grin even though she can’t see me. “Challenge accepted.”
After June goes to work, I get a haircut, then sneak into the Rawlings’ garage and move at top speed to get ready, using the car’s side mirror and window reflections to see how I look. My new jeans and shirt are wrinkled, and they probably need laundering. I tuck in the price tag, but I’m not sure I could return it after this many wears. Then I make dinner reservations and head to June’s apartment.
“Come up,” she says, answering the call when I buzz her.
The door clicks, and I throw it open, sprinting up the stairs. Before my fist hits her door, it opens.
“Jesus …” I whisper as she punches the air from my lungs with her black dress, thin straps tied around her neck. Black high heels that make me weak in the knees. Hair braided. Lips glossed.
“You have some explaining to do,” she says, stepping aside to let me in.
I’m underdressed. Even if my clothes were freshly cleaned and pressed, I’d be underdressed. “You said you were wearing a skirt and blouse. Not?—”
“I was,” she says, closing the door.
