he crook of his arm. He pulled me close and kissed my forehead, my right cheek, then my left.
“Fuck baby,” he said. I’d come to learn that excessive swearing before, during, and shortly after orgasm was just one of his quirks. “How’d you get so good at that?”
I nuzzled his neck. “I have a patient and thorough teacher.”
“If only every student exhibited your boundless enthusiasm.”
It was true. I had taken to practicing the art of the blow job like mastering a new artistic medium, always ready and eager to drop to my knees, and not just in the bedroom. Likewise, Mason was an expert at pleasuring me with his mouth. He could make me come in under three minutes using only the very tip of his tongue. But he much preferred to draw it out, to watch me sweat and squirm.
“What time is it?” he asked.
I grabbed his phone from the bedside table. “Almost five o’clock.”
“We really should get up.” He rolled on top of me and sighed, burying his face in my hair. “Remind me again why we should get up.”
“Because no one can live on sex and post-coital cuddling alone?”
“I’m willing to test that theory if you are.”
I laughed, relaxing into the feeling of being pinned in place by his body.
We did in fact have plans to meet up with a small group of Mason’s colleagues for dinner. After an early start in the studio—he preferred morning light for painting—we’d spent the afternoon alternately napping and making love. I used to cringe at that phrase. Making love. It sounded so hokey. But that’s exactly what we were doing, transforming desire into something tangible with our bodies. Mason’s love was alchemy. He made me into something else, like new growth after a forest fire. Supple, yet strong.
The first night we spent together, he joked that he'd created a monster and we laughed about it, but it was true. I thought about sex all the time now. I wanted it every second of every day.
“I was thinking I’d invite everyone back for drinks tonight,” he said.
“Sounds fun.” I skimmed my fingernails down the center of his back and relished the exhale that followed. He kissed my neck, then rose from the bed, his hair wild and chest sheened with sweat—his and mine.
He smiled. “I could paint a picture every day for the rest of my life, and never paint anything half as beautiful as my little girl.”
My skin tingled as though his words had physically touched me. He studied me a moment longer, then headed into the bathroom to shower. I stretched out like a starfish on the bed and listened for the sound of water beating against the tile. I’d join him in the shower in a minute. For now, I simply wanted to lay there and marvel at how this had become my life.
I’d fallen in love with the man who was once my father.
It was like a bomb had gone off inside me, forever altering the landscape. Nothing would be the same again. We'd done things to each other that I hadn’t known were doable, yet we’d somehow managed to hold off on the one thing I craved more than anything.
I was still a virgin, technically speaking, but for how much longer?
Not too long, I hoped.
At first, Mason had insisted we wait until I was on birth control. When I suggested condoms, he thanked me for reminding him to go get tested for STDs. Then he said he wanted my first time to be something special. I told him every day with him was special, so could he please hurry up and fuck me before my pussy imploded.
That one earned me a time out in the studio with a box of crayons and a bowl of fruit.
I couldn’t help it. I was cock-hungry. He made me feel edgy and desperate, like my consciousness had been shrunk down and relocated to my pelvis. I didn’t like feeling desperate, and I didn’t understand why he was holding back.
Mason’s phone vibrated on the nightstand, wrenching me from my thoughts. Feeling nosy, I checked to see who had texted him and then instantly regretted it. The text was from Krista, the model whose job I’d taken over when she’d come down with the flu a few weeks ago.
I knew he’d been sleeping with her before I came to New York. In the text, she claimed to be feeling much better, and she wanted to know if he was free for a private party tonight, followed by two question marks and a winky-faced kiss emoji.
I thought about deleting it. I even fantasized about how satisfying it would feel to erase every trace of her from his phone. But that would be petty and childish, and I was working so hard to prove I could be mature. I marked the message as unread to hide the fact that I’d been snooping and laid the phone on the bedside table.
I tiptoed into the bathroom and slipped inside the walk-in shower. Mason smiled when he saw me, his skin frothed with body wash.
“You got a text a few minutes ago,” I said, trying to sound casual. The masochistic parts of me wanted him to check his phone as soon as he toweled off so I could ask him about it.
“Who was it from?” He moved aside to let me stand beneath the rain head. “Someone asking about dinner?”