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I wait for shame, but all I feel is relief.
Over breakfast, Damien gives me a funny look and tells me I look pretty today, then in the next breath asks if he can hang out with Daphne after soccer camp. I dismiss the rare compliment as a tactic of negotiation but say yes anyway.
Then, when I drop him off at the high school, two of the other moms tell me I look amazing. They ask about my skin care routine and hair products.
That has never happened before.
At home, I pause before the mirror inside the front door and appraise my face. I look exactly the same. Wild blond hair that I hated as a kid but have made peace with as an adult. Faded freckles over my nose and cheeks. Eyes somewhere between green and blue, my lashes and brows closer to brown than blond. The same imperfections greet me—tiny scars, faint lines.
I don’t get it, but nevertheless, I feel it.
I clean off the kitchen table and do the breakfast dishes, then gather my laptop and notes for today’s interviews. All the while, I feel strangely disconnected from my body, but in a peaceful way. Like I’m floating a few inches in front of myself, unattached to the everyday stresses of life.
A loud, sudden knocking doesn’t even make my heart jump. After checking the time and seeing I have twenty-five minutes before my first Zoom interview, I calmly walk to the front door and open it.
Blue eyes. Messy hair. Pinched mouth.
Broad shoulders: tense.
Hands: clenched.
“Peapod.”
My ears ring, and with a snap, my brain returns from its vacation. My pulse jumps, then races.
“You’re ignoring my texts.”
My tongue too thick for words, I nod.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
But I do know. And so does he.
“Liar.”
I swallow. Lick my lips. His gaze narrows on my mouth. Without thinking about it, I say, “We have twenty minutes until my first interview. Is that enough time?”
He surges toward me. The door closes a second before long fingers grip my neck and his mouth covers mine. I whimper at the taste of his tongue—mint and coffee and him. We shuffle backward. Hit the table in the entryway. My shirt sails over my head. His belt clatters on the floor.
“Where?” he mumbles into my mouth.
“Don’t care.” I gasp, then lick his lower lip and bite it.
He groans. “You’re killing me. Hold tight.”
I lock my arms around his shoulders as he hoists my legs to his hips. I clamp my teeth onto the side of his neck and he hisses, fingers squeezing my ass and hip.
“Are you wet for me?” he asks, his voice low, rough against my ear.
I nod.
“Good. Because I woke up hard for you, and I have to be inside you right now.”
He presses me against a wall—I don’t even know which one. All I can think is how grateful I am that his mouth is back on mine. I’m doubly grateful for my long, flowy skirt as he drags the fabric up. My underwear is yanked to the side and his fingers unceremoniously sink into me.
“So sweet. So warm,” he murmurs into my lips. “I’m going to fuck you hard and fast. Okay?”
