Page 82 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

She splays her hands on my chest, moving them up until she’s cupping my jaw. There’s a whirlwind in her eyes I can’t decipher. “I don’t want to talk about work. All I want right now is you.”

“And my chicken, tomato soup, and rice casserole?”

She pulls me down and kisses me softly. “And that.”

An hour later, we’re full of good food, and I’m on the verge of an orgasm. Sadie’s beside me at the small square dinner table, and we’ve spent the entire meal secretly teasing each other. Like now, the way her lower leg is wrapped behind mine, her hand resting on my thigh—more inner than outer, the vixen—drawing small circles along the inside seam of my jeans? She lives to torment.

“Guess it’s cleaning time,” I say to Max. I don’t look at Sadie, but I copy her hand movements, exploring her inner thigh, those soft sweatpants hiding nothing as I move up and up and . . . I abruptly stand, leaving her wanting.

She makes a tiny strangled sound.

“Something wrong?” I lean down and ham up my concern.

She bares her teeth at me in a forced grin. “Must be the wine. Feeling a bit overheated.”

“Anything I can do to help?” I drop my voice. “Get you more wet. I mean, more water?”

“I’m pretty good at getting that myself,” she says, beating me at my own game.

Now I’m picturing her slipping her hand under the band of those soft sweats, spreading herself open, touching herself. Fuck. She stands and brushes the back of her hand against my straining fly as she passes me. I’m too far gone to even attempt a comeback.

Somehow, Max and I clean our mess. True to my word, I don’t let Sadie help. She’d only rile me up until the plates were in a shattered pile on the floor anyway. Still, she manages to light me on fire. She doesn’t tease me verbally or find a reason to round the island and touch my on-edge body. She just sits there, watching us work, making Max giggle by reaching under the running water and flicking it in his face. It’s some weird kind of foreplay—the domesticity.

I’ve never wanted Sadie like this. Not because I’ve been celibate so long. Not because I’ve fantasized about her for eleven excruciating years. She’s still the smart, creative, caring, ball-busting woman I fell in love with at seventeen, but she’s also more now. Stronger. Independent. An inspiring mother. I can barely contain my need to be inside of her, fracture her composure, show her just how incredible she is.

Also, kids are wonderful cockblockers.

After we clean up, Max asks to watch a movie. He apparently loves October Sky, an old movie about a young boy who designs and launches space rockets. He sits between Sadie and me on the couch. Cockblocker extraordinaire. Good thing he’s cute. With him this close, I don’t risk reaching behind to stroke Sadie’s shoulder. She and I share a few I’m-going-to-ravage-you glances, along with one the-bed-will-shake smolder that has me dropping my head back, but we keep it clean.

When Max drifts off partway through—if this is a homemade-sugar crash, points to me—Sadie nudges him and tells him to go to bed.

He stands and rubs his eyes. “Will you be here in the morning?” he asks me.

I quickly shake my head. Sadie’s rules. There’s no way I’ll test them at this particular juncture. “No, bud. I’m heading home in a bit. I’ll see you at the hike tomorrow morning.”

He nods and yawns, then leans down and cuddles into me, wrapping his arms around my neck. “Thanks for today.”

Jesus Christ. This kid.

“Loved it. And I love you.” I squeeze him and try to control my erratic pulse, but there’s too much going on. Our fun day. This fantastic night. Max’s heart-squeezing hug. The fact that I’m going to maul his mother the second his bedroom door closes.

I lift him off me and point him toward the stairs.

“Brush your teeth,” Sadie calls. “Both—”

“Rows and all sides,” Max finishes. Apparently their nightly banter. He gives a loose wave and drags his tired body up the stairs.

“How long until he’s in his room?” My voice is no longer recognizable. This is how prisoners sound. Roughened men who’ve been in solitary confinement and haven’t spoken in weeks.

She touches her neck and glances at the stairs. “About five minutes.”

“Does he ever come into your room? Like, if he can’t sleep or is having a bad dream?”

Now I’m a starving prisoner on death row.

“Hasn’t done it in years, but we’ll use the guest room down here.”

I nod and stare at her. She stares at me. It’s wild that we can sit here, a small space still between us, not touching, but I feel so damn much: my haywire pulse, the hot rush of my blood, this intense wanting that has my mouth going desperate-for-Sadie dry.