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Then he glanced at the clock on her bedside table.
“Four minutes, fifty-two seconds,” he said. “You needed that.”
Lia didn’t speak. She wasn’t entirely sure she could speak.
“Lia?”
She held up one finger, asking for a minute to compose herself.
“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be crowing if you need me.”
“Crow?”
“First—I told you so. Second—there’s nothing wrong with you and there never was. Third—that orgasm was so strong you almost chipped my tooth, and if you had, I would never have gotten it fixed.”
Her stomach was still fluttering, her mouth was dry, her vagina wet.
“Fourth—your David’s a wanker. And he’s shite in bed. He probably kicks puppies, too, and is one of those bastards who creates anonymous Twitter accounts just to insult celebrities. My cock’s bigger, right?”
Lia nodded as hard as her exhausted body would let her.
“Knew it.”
In the background of her awareness, Lia saw August undressing again, felt the bed shift as he crawled in next to her. He gathered her in his arms and placed her back against the pillows again, pulled the covers over her shivering body. Lia managed a breathy “Thank you.”
“So,” he said. “Verdict?”
“Red sounds like trumpets,” she said. “Blue like rain on a tin roof.”
“Good. Your body did come about three feet off the bed. I measured. Did lightning strike your stomach?”
“I’m lucky to be alive.”
“What about the face of God?” August asked. “Did you touch it?”
Lia raised a tired hand to his face and stroked his cheek.
“Close enough,” she said. August turned his head and kissed her palm.
Then Lia tackled him. She had no idea why or where the urge came from, but it came from somewhere and it landed her on top of August. She threw herself full body into pinning him to the bed, easy enough as he put up no fight whatsoever.
She grabbed his wrists—when had he untied them?—and pinned them to the pillow on either side of his head.
“How did you do that?” she demanded.
“What? Make you come?”
“Yes.”
“I put my tongue on your clit and rubbed it there until—”
“How did you get untied?”
“I’ll never tell you. You can’t make me. Go on. More questions. Being interrogated by a beautiful angry spy is one of my fantasies. If you want to slap me, you can. You should.”
“Who are you, August Bowman?” she asked, lightly slamming his wrists into the bed. “If that is your real name.”
“It’s not my real name.”
