Page 125 of First-Time Caller
Lucie steals a piece of pineapple and shimmies down farther in the blanket nest she’s made from discarded sheets. She smells like sex and tomato sauce.
“I knew you liked the pizza,” she accuses with her chin propped on her fist. There are several hickeys forming on her neck and I am inordinately pleased about it.
I swallow the gargantuan bite I just took. “The pizza is fine.”
“You’ve had, like, four slices.”
Five, but I don’t intend to point that out. This is the closest I’ve ever come to a perfect moment in my life. Lucie with her leg draped over mine, pale skin wrapped in white sheets, confiscating the toppings of my pizza.
“I’ve worked up an appetite,” I tell her. She blushes and I lean forward to brush my lips against it. Because I can. Because I’ve spent the past however many weeks telling myself not to. Because I’ve spent the last decade telling myself not to want anything at all, and Lucie is the first thing I’ve let myself reach for.
She slips her hand around my neck and squeezes. “I should— I should get going.” My stomach twists and I growl in the hollow behind her ear. The only place I want her to get going to is my bedroom at the top of the stairs. I can worry about the consequences later.
“No.”
She laughs. “No?”
“I think you should stay,” I tell her, two fingers slipping into the front of her sheet toga and tugging.
Her face is shy. Her smile pleased. “You want me to?”
I nod. “Mm-hmm.” I tug the sheet down some more until it’s crumpled across her lap. I cup my hand around her breast and fill my palm with her. “Do you need me to convince you?”
She slips onto my lap and wraps both arms around my shoulders.
“Only if you’re nice about it,” she whispers into my ear.
CALLER:How much longer will you be on the show?
LUCIE STONE:Oh. Uh, I’m not sure, actually. It’s—I guess it’s up to Aiden.
AIDEN VALENTINE:It’s not up to me. I’ve told you. You’re the boss.
LUCIE STONE:Aren’t you tired of sharing this tiny booth?
AIDEN VALENTINE:No.
AIDEN VALENTINE:Are you tired of sharing this tiny booth?
LUCIE STONE:No.
CALLER:So you’re staying?
LUCIE STONE:No, no. I’m not staying. I just don’t know when I’m leaving yet.
AIDEN VALENTINE:Well, there’s your answer.
CALLER:That was . . . not an answer.
Istare unseeingly at the coffeemaker in my kitchen, contemplating my existence.
I got home twenty minutes ago and haven’t done much of anything, moving through my house like the Ghost of Satisfied Sexual Adventures Past. The Ghost of Horny Present? I don’t know.
Isthatwhat sex is supposed to be like? No wonder Patty is always yelling at me about getting laid. I feel both bone-deep exhaustion and incandescent euphoria. Like I could sleep for ten thousand years and also swim the length of the Chesapeake Bay.
My front door slams open and I hear feet on the stairs, pounding up. Maya shouts a distracted hello, and I’m glad I only gave in to Aiden once this morning. I don’t know how I would have explained slinking into the kitchen while my daughter poured Froot Loops at the counter.
As it stands, I comb my fingers through my hair, trying to untangle some of the knots. Aiden bent me over the vanity in his bathroom after our shared shower this morning and threaded his fingers through my hair, angling my head up so I could watch us in the fogged-up mirror. I shiver thinking about it—about the hazy, unfocused outlines of our bodies moving together—a bloom of warmth low in my belly.
