Dirty Secret

She pulls back with a sigh and a smile. "I'm awake and alert now."

"What do you mean?" I play dumb.

"We could have sex now."

"You're supposed to play along."

"I just told you I'm going to make you wait."

Again, she makes a show of pouting. "Wouldn't it be more fun for everyone if we had sex right now?"

I'm considering it. We only have the day. Why waste hours making her wait when I could have her again and again? "No."

"Just no?"

"Maybe after breakfast."

"Breakfast?"

"The meal that starts the day."

"Shit." Her brow screws. "Indie and I are supposed to have brunch. We do it every Sunday." Her eyes go to the clock. "She's supposed to stop by my apartment in ten minutes. I can tell her I'm on a run, but…"

If her sister shows up at her apartment to find it empty, she'll start asking questions.

"I, uh, I can meet her there." She finds her cell and taps a text to her sister.

"Do you need help?"

"No. I don't think so." Her phone buzzes in her hand. She glances at the screen. Lets out a sigh. "Okay, she's fine to meet me there. So I'm good." She kisses me again. "It should only be a few hours. I'd cancel, but…"

It would be suspicious. "Go, be with your sister." That's what I want for her. I want her to keep her best friend.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Will you promise to fuck me after?"

"What do you think?"

She brings her fingers to her lip corners and pulls them into an over the top frown.

"If you're going to be this cute about it, I'm going to keep torturing you."

"You're going to do it anyway." She pulls me into another slow, deep kiss. "You don't fool me."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you sure you won't promise?"

"Ask again and you'll get your answer."

She laughs and shakes her head. "I think that's a bluff, but I'm not going to risk it."

She moves into the bedroom, dresses in yesterday's tank and jeans, slips her essentials into her pocket, and kisses me goodbye.

Then she leaves and the room isn't the same without her.

Chapter Forty

Sienna

When we were kids, Mom made breakfast every day. If Dad was home, that meant eggs, bacon, and toast. A manly breakfast that promised strength.

Why bacon is manly, I'm not sure, but it is. And my dad was a firefighter. He had odd hours. I was too young to keep track of his schedule.

So when I woke up to the smell of bacon and coffee, I knew he was home. I knew we'd go play at the park or jam out to old records (I didn't appreciate the nuance, sure, but I liked to dance) or watch a movie on the couch.

I knew everything was okay. I didn't even understand why it was okay, but I had that sense of safety.

When he died, the breakfasts stopped. Not just the feast Mom made when Dad was home. The faster, easier eggs and toast. Or crock pot oatmeal. Or, sometimes, if we were lucky, pancakes or French toast.

It was me and Indie and cold cereal—she's really not much of a cook—until I was old enough to fix breakfast and I brought back the tradition.

No full feasts, but eggs and toast, and on the weekends, something delicious and sweet.

When we lived in Brooklyn, we sat together every Sunday, for a fancy, at home brunch just for us. And when she moved in with Ty (unofficially then officially), we switched to a restaurant with really good French toast.

Since she can't cook and my apartment is too small to host and we don't need Ty intruding on our girl time.

Although I do consider it sometimes. Ty is a fantastic cook, and he even makes freaking amazing cinnamon roll French toast and while sugar isn't as great as girl time, it's very tempting early in the morning (okay, yes, we brunch at eleven o’clock) or after a run.

Most Sundays, I get up early to run, arrive fresh from the shower.

So, naturally, Indigo looks at me funny when I stroll into brunch with dry hair, in a tank and jeans and wedges way too cute for this time of morning.

"You look cute today." She greets me with a hug. "Running late getting dressed?"

"It's my last chance to show up the bride."

There. The change of topic sends her straight to Love Land. For a moment, she stares at the bright blue sky, no doubt imagining a vaguely phallic cloud is her fiancé's dick—

And now I'm imagining it's Cam's dick.

It's kind of an ill-shaped dick, being a cloud and all, but it still sends my thoughts to dirty places.

The feel of his hands in my hair.

The taste of him in my mouth.

The sweet pressure of him inside me.

I've always been obsessed with sex, but I've never been obsessed with dick. On its own, a dick is just a dick.