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They are, and we rate them a five out of five for spice.
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Later, we’re back in bed and it’s past two, but I don’t feel anxious about the rest of the night. I’m not playing out scenarios or worried about what I’ll say. Here, in bed, I feel like I can speak my mind, and do it safely. “Kiss me,” I say softly.
He covers me with his body, kissing me deeply till I’m arching, writhing, and asking for more. I whisper his name, savoring how it feels on my tongue, like the last bite of a fine dessert.
His scent envelopes me, but it’s like another version of his cologne mixed with notes of sex and me, the fading embers of a fire, and the last lingering hints of orchids before the flowers crumble.
Darkness wraps its arms around the city, the moon sealing up our stolen night, racing too fast to dawn.
12
THE MORNING AFTER PINEAPPLE
Finn
No meat. No problem.
An Adams man knows how to improvise. On Saturday morning, I bound up the steps to my brownstone with the bag of groceries from my early morning run to the store around the block. I punch in the entry code, and once the door closes behind me, I listen for the sound of Jules. It’s early, not even seven-thirty. I don’t know a ton about the habits of twenty-five-year-olds in the city anymore, but when I was that age, no fucking way was I awake this early on a Saturday morning.
Bet she’s still sound asleep, chestnut hair fanned out on my pillow, eyes fluttering, like they were when I left a little while ago. She looked like she belonged in my bed maybe another morning too.
I entertain that thought for a few dangerous seconds before my chest tightens like a belt has been cinched around it. The idea is foolish for many reasons. First, there is noanother morningwith my best friend’s daughter.
You crossed a line, man. Don’t even think about crossing it again.
Second, there is no next time withanyoneright now.
My goal is to be the best father I can be. To give Zach all my love, all my attention. Even if Jules weren’t connected to my life in a twisted way, I wouldn’t be able to strike up anything more than sex with her.
Romance is a lie.
A year ago, Marilyn and I were in couples therapy for fuck’s sake—arguing about everything. We’d stopped sleeping together. Stopped going on dates. Stopped having meaningful conversations.
We’d already argued about whether she’d ever want to have a family. She’d wanted one when we met, she’d talked about kids just after we’d married, but it was all a lie. A cold, cruel lie. She married me for money, not for love, and not for family. Pretty sure she onlystayedin the marriage for her own financial gain.
I grind my teeth, and that dark cloud tormenting me turns blacker and colder as I head to the kitchen. I’ve got to get her out of my mind.
I’ve got to remember, too, that great sex is just that—great sex.
Nothing more.
Doing my best to shove my ex-wife far away from my one and only morning with Jules, I empty the bag, setting a pineapple, a container of blueberries, and a carton of granola on the counter. Then, I wash my hands. When I hear footsteps approaching, my heart lightens and my lips curve into a smile.
Great sex, buddy. That’s all.
Jules turns into the living room, meeting my gaze from across the space, she’s dressed in a tank top and leggings, her hair twisted into a messy bun, her face fresh. But there’s a bag on her shoulder and aready to boltlook in her eyes.
“Hey,” I say, arching a brow. “Going somewhere?”
She gestures to the window behind me in the kitchen, bright morning light streaking through it. “Well, the sun is up. I think I turned into a pumpkin hours ago.”
She’s trying to make light of her departure, but I don’t think that’s why she’s up so early. “Did you think I just…left?”
“No. It’s your place. Why would I think that?” But her tone says she’s lying.
I move around the island counter, stopping a foot away from her. “You woke up, saw me gone, and thought I, what, went out for a run?”
