99 Percent Mine

“Oh, yeah.” We’re increasingly using shorthand with each other. Alex is going to be up on the roof installing the solar panels on Friday. He’s been promoted from general shitkicker. I try to rearrange the remaining team in my head, but nothing works.

I’d offer to reschedule my studio time, but I know Tom won’t hear of it. Besides, I’ve got a really interesting elderly lady sitting for a portrait with me. She’s a tarot reader that I tracked down with an old address book of my grandmother’s. That’s another series I’m working on: all portraits of fortune-tellers. This year, I’m going to enter the same portrait competition I won all those years ago. I want to see if I can re-peak my career.

“The floors aren’t going anywhere,” Tom says like he knows what I’m thinking. “They can wait to get sanded. You still want the original floors, right?”

“Yeah, I love them.” I don’t know what these floorboards are, but they feel just right when I walk with bare feet. Wood from a magic forest.

I open the kitchen cabinet nearest me a few times—silent, sturdy, and impossible to rip off in the heat of passion. The handle fits just right in my fingers. I’m having a weird sense of déjà vu; this house is more perfect than any other we’ve done.

“How are we going to top this? There’s no way we can do better than this plac

e.” He doesn’t reply but I feel his pleasure at this comment hum through the wall.

I sip my coffee and change a few prices from suppliers in our master spreadsheet. It’s sad that I get a tiny adrenaline rush every time a price comes down. I must be my brother’s sister after all. It’s a further rush to know that I am good at this. So, so much better than my twin would be.

I hit save. “Can you believe that guy gave me such a good discount on the sandstone pavers?”

“Yes, I can, actually,” Tom says, with an edge to it that makes me go in search of him. I walk into the living room and find him at the top of a ladder. He’s got a screwdriver in one hand and the base of the ugly light fitting in the other, which he drops on the floor. It’s destined for the trash. “You were very charming.”

I take another mouthful of coffee. I know I shouldn’t, but I love this game. “I’m a charming gal.”

“He probably would have given them to you for free, if I’d given you another five minutes.” He gives me a glance that is equal parts amusement and irritation before stretching up to press his thumb to the crumbling screw holes in the ceiling. He’ll patch and sand them. You won’t believe it now, but after some white paint it’s going to be a perfect ceiling.

“I think you get off on flirting with guys in front of me,” he adds offhand.

I let my eyes drift up his body. I know what I get off on. I’ve seen him stand on every rung of that ladder but it will always affect me the same way: a hot feeling in my throat and a watery weakness in my thighs. When he stretches up, I can see a sliver of the waistband of his Underswears. That sliver isn’t enough.

A memory from last night drops through my body like a coin. Ripples spread through my stomach, shimmering down.

“I had a good time last night.” We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. We ate dinner, wiped the marble countertops, unzipped our tent, and took each other’s clothes off.

He bursts out laughing at the sincerity in my voice. “I know. I was there.” He’s going black eyed as he looks down at me. I wonder what memory is causing that. Is the soreness in my muscles from last night or the night before? It’s all just an endless chain of nights, blurring together in the lushest way possible.

I shrug. “You were definitely there, under me. On me. Behind me. That’s why you don’t have to be jealous of guys who sell pavers.”

“Jealous?” There’s a deep timbre to his voice that something inside me always responds to. That ripple inside just gets deeper. I’m in trouble—or in luck. Let’s see which. I check my watch. The crew is due soon.

He steps down to the floor, picks me up by my waist, and eases me back until my feet steady up on the bottom rung of the stepladder. It gets me closer to his mouth level. I feel the care he takes with me, even as his eyes turn a little dangerous. “You think I’m jealous? DB, they’re all jealous of me.”

He takes my hand, twists my sapphire engagement ring straight, and puts his lips on mine.

My world turns gold.

Throughout my life, Tom’s been right there when I’ve needed him, his eyes narrowed in earnest thought as he assesses how to help me. Translate that to our sex life. I’ve never been able to test my physical limits with another man, but this one knows me, A to Z. Right now, there’s a screwdriver in his fist and I feel it against my back. It makes me smile.

He’s the hottest kind of capable.

Sometimes, when he’s especially inventive, my heart cannot keep up. He’ll ease off until our movements are languid, and he’ll hold me together until my system reboots and we can resume. And we resume plenty. He nearly kills me and that’s okay. I survive.

Sometimes I nearly kill him. That’s my favorite thing to do.

He breaks our lips apart to ask, “When are we getting your bed out of storage?”

I shrug and in response he bites down on my bottom lip until he feels the shiver shake my bones. It’s a little reprimand for dragging my heels on this decision.

We twist another screw into this lust. I feel a hand sliding up my back, tracing over the strap of my bra for a few shivering seconds.

“Most girls would be sick of being in a tent by now. Not you.”