Sugar

“Yes, but even then I prefer my vanilla with a little topping.”

“My God, your porn collection must be fascinating.”

“I think if you saw it, you’d get scared.”

“I think you underestimate my curiosity and infatuation with your pussy—and all the things I can do to make it wet.”

I glance down at his softening cock. “My hand.”

He let go. I slid off his lap and washed my hands. He lounged on the couch, stretching out in all his naked glory.

“Don’t get come on my pillows.”

“You’re a little bit of a tight ass.”

“I thought you liked my tight ass.”

“I do. But, as far as your control freak issues go, every time you tell me not to do something it makes me want to do it even more, totally disrupt your perfect order and watch you get all flustered and bitchy.”

I shut off the faucet. “You get come on my cushions, and you’re paying to have them reupholstered. Is that bitchy enough for you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A little steam cleaning would get it out. You’re so extreme sometimes.”

I snatched a dishtowel off the counter and tossed it at his chest. Grabbing my shirt off the floor, I slid it back on while he wiped himself clean. Still sprawled on his back, his gaze never left me, the soiled dishtowel now on the floor.

“You can put your clothes back on.”

“Nope. If I put them on, you’ll make me leave, and who knows how long it’ll take for me to convince you to let me in again.”

“You think I won’t throw your ass out in the hall naked? And I didn’t let you in. You shoved your way in and wouldn’t leave.” He was more intrusive than a termite.

“You regret it?”

I paused, not wanting to answer that question right now, even in my own head. “I have to put my groceries away. And someone probably stole yours by now—it was the last loaf of bread in Philadelphia after all.”

“Nobody’s stealing my stuff.”

“That’s right. You’re the only thief in the building. I forgot.”

My magazines now went right to the front desk, out of reach of men with sticky fingers. Speaking of which… “You should really wash your hands. Touch your face, and you might wind up with pink eye.”

“That’s not how you get pink eye.”

I went to collect my bags by the door. “Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not. It’s from shit.”

This had to be the most unsexy, post-orgasmic conversation in the history of human existence. “It’s from bacterial secretions. What do you think come is? And can we talk about something else?”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

I emptied my bags on the counter, frowning, as he just laid there—naked—on my couch. “Are you really not going to get dressed?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Are you going to make me leave if I do?”

I turned my back to him, stacking soup cans in the cupboard. A little smile pulled at my lips. I honestly didn’t want him to leave. I’d missed him, and this was the first time I actually felt settled in the last week.

“I guess you can stay for a little bit.”

When I turned back around, he was sliding into his jeans. “What do you want me to do with this towel?”

“There’s a hamper in the bathroom.” He headed down the hall, and I shouted, “Wash your hands while you’re in there!”

I heard the water running and smiled. He returned a few minutes later. “Hey, did you know your faucet’s leaking?”

“I know. I told Winston, and he said he’d get a plumber out sometime next week.”

“A plumber? I can fix it in a few minutes. It’s a simple washer replacement.”

“I don’t know what a washer is.”

“It’s a… You know what? I’ll just go grab one. The hardware store on Pine doesn’t close until eight.”

I frowned, not expecting him to actually leave the building in order to fix my sink. “You don’t have to do that. The plumber will be here on…” He was already putting on his coat.

“It’ll take ten minutes.” He kissed my cheek, and I stiffened. “I’ll be right back.”

What was happening here? “O—okay.”

The door closed behind him, and I stared at my empty apartment. Were we playing house or something? Was I supposed to feed him now? This was definitely not the way I did things.

23

Avery

As Noah messed around in my bathroom, I scrambled to put together a nice meal. I didn’t do meals. I was used to only feeding myself or dining at fancy restaurants while my clients picked up the bill. Extremely unprepared for a two-person dinner party, I felt every bit of my inadequate upbringing.

“How’s it going in there?” I called as I dumped a box of whole grain macaroni into a pot of boiling water and searched the cabinets.

“Good. Almost finished.”

He’d returned from the hardware store, tracking a decent amount of melted snow through the door with him, and carrying a little bag with the washer thing he needed. The ground outside already wore a dusting of white, and my wood floors now wore damp towels to mop up the puddles from the ice chips melting off his boots.