chapter sixty-three

“Cookie Monster, huh?”

I snorted laughter, which turned into guffaws as he began tickling me and I jabbed him in the ribs and I thought, again, I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone else’s.

Later he showed me his glorious shower: two showerheads, sand-colored tile, and big enough to hose down elephants. Shower sex, I found, was a lot like going apple picking. It sounded great, and in the beginning it was fun, but then reality sets in and you realize you’re farming, which is not fun. Farming is hard work. So is trying to come while also trying to help the person with you have fun while making sure nobody accidentally shuts off all the cold water. Or worse, all the hot water.

But kitchen island sex is fun! (After you put lots of towels down—stainless steel is chilly anytime, but especially in December.)

And a shower after bedroom sex and shower sex and kitchen island sex is bliss itself, especially when a lanky brunette with tired eyes and a wicked smile is there to scrub your back.

I led him back to his bedroom and kissed him goodnight—no, good morning. “Nnn unnh?” he managed, already slipping into sleep.

“Gotta go,” I whispered, stroking his hair back from his forehead. “I’m dying for a bagel and I want to get back to the new old house and get some unpacking done so I can have a sleepover. And hey! Good job with the whole taking my virginity thing. Now that’s off my to-do list. I’ll call.”

“Love you.”

“Well, I hope so.” I kissed him on the mouth. “Love you, too. Sleep, my exhausted sex angel.”

His chuckle followed me out the door.