The Next Mrs Russo

The one where people actually get pushed up against the wall in very fun and inventive ways.

I’m still scrolling through my options when Warren appears in the room. He looks unfairly handsome in a suit, the collar of his shirt already loosened. He barely glances at me as he passes through the room to grab something off a table.

“Hey,” I say, taking out my earbuds.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he replies, with barely a glance in my direction. “I’ll leave you to your reading.”

“Oh, no worries,” I say, still scrolling. “I was just bookmarking porn.”

He freezes mid-stride on his way out of the room and turns around to face me. “Excuse me?”

“You know, bookmarking? Tabbing? Whatever,” I say, shrugging. “I had some free time so I’m scrolling. It’s exhausting trying to find anything good when you need it, am I right?”

More like I need something to satisfy me because my endless sex dreams about you don’t quite cut it, Governor.

“For when you need it,” Warren repeats, clearing his throat.

He looks confused, which doesn’t make any sense. Everybody bookmarks their porn, right? I’m not sure why this concept is so foreign to him. Maybe he’s not picky about his porn? That’s probably it, he’s a guy. I’m super picky. It’s a bit of a curse, hence the scrolling.

“So you’re just sitting in my living room, looking for… porn?”

I blink, looking around. “Isn’t this the sitting room?”

“Same thing.”

“Not really,” I say. “I’m sitting in this room. Feels like a perfectly appropriate place for what I’m doing.”

He just stares at me, but I think I see his lip twitch.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, pointing a finger at my iPad. “I’m not on your wifi. And I was using headphones. I’m a very considerate porn-watcher. I used to live in the city and there’s nothing worse than having to listen to someone else’s porn selection through a wall, you know what I mean?”

He shakes his head, and for a second, I think he might leave. But then he takes a step closer. He crosses his arms. He narrows his eyes just a tad. “So you’re just… searching for the good stuff.”

“Exactly.” I nod. “It takes forever because there’s a lot of junk to wade through. Terrible camera angles. Bad lighting. Not everyone takes pride in their work, you know?”

Warren blinks, tilting his head to the side a bit as if he’s still not sure this conversation isn’t a joke. “I imagine anyone who films themselves having sex and uploads it to the internet isn’t really focused on pride.”

“That’s fair. But it still doesn’t mean it’s any good.”

“So”—he pauses, as if thinking out his next question—“what specifically makes it good besides lighting and camera angles? What kind of keywords are you using in your search?”

He loosens his tie. There’s still that twitchy lip, one I can’t read. Is he about to laugh at me? He sort of looks like he did before when we were in the kitchen while I was chasing that damn chipmunk. A chipmunk which, by the way, is living happily ever after in the backyard, thanks to me. Or thanks to Warren for opening the door, but whatever. I got Gary to drop the chipmunk so it’s my win.

But never mind the chipmunk, because Warren’s staring at me. Like really staring at me, like I’m sort of fascinating, and I don’t even care if it’s an amused fascination. He’s actually here. No distractions. And now that the sun has gone down it’s gotten a bit dark in the sitting room, like we’re in a private little bubble.

I tilt my chin up, because fuck it, I’m not going to back down. “If you must know, I’m searching threesomes.”

“Is that what you’re into?” He grins as if he’s not sure if I’m messing with him or not.

“Is that what you’re into?” I volley in return. “Do you have a secret sex room in the mansion?”

I have no idea why, but I sit up a little straighter on the sofa and peer around the room as if a secret door in the paneling is about to show itself, revealing a room with a padded sex bench and handcuffs and… whatever goes into sex rooms.

“No.” He’s shaking his head slowly, no longer hiding his amusement. “To both questions.”

“Yeah, me neither. Threesomes are a bit scintillating to watch, but I don’t want to actually be in one.”

“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs.

“Is it?” I like this development. I like it very much. The only reason he’d care about what I’m into is if he was interested in being into it with me. Right? Also, is it… hot in here? I mean, cliché yes, but I’m suddenly feeling very, very warm. In all sorts of places.

“So what are you into?” Right. That wasn’t a weird question. I clear my throat and try again. “’Cause whatever it is, me too,” I add, because yes, that did not make it weirder. At all.