“Both, I guess.”

Sofia nods with understanding. “The direct approach it is, then. So I’m there to . . .”

“You’re there to make sure I don’t stick my foot in my mouth or up someone’s ass. To keep me on track. Jenn and I have a long history together, and we have Presley. She said she’s only been seeing James Dean for a few months, so I can’t believe that any feelings she has for him could be anywhere as strong as what she feels for me. I think this whole thing is her cry for help, really.”

“You think she’s feeling neglected?”

“Exactly. So I’ll show her she’s got my attention.”

She takes a long swig of her wine, draining half the glass. “And after that? Do you think you’ll . . . propose to Jenny?”

I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. I rub the back of my neck. “It’s complicated. I don’t want her marrying anyone else, that’s for damn sure. But . . . Presley’s still in school; I don’t know if they’d want to move to DC now. I always pictured Jenny and me getting married . . . later. When we’re older.”

Her brows rise to her hairline. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You are older.”

“I’m in my prime.”

“That’s kind of my point.”

I stand up. “The bottom line is, everything’s on the table. If proposing to Jenny keeps her from marrying Sausage Link—then I’ll do what I have to do.”

“Wow.” Sofia snorts. “You’re so romantic. How could any woman resist that?”

I flip her the bird and smirk. “The romance is in the doing—not the talking.”

With that case closed, I hit the shower.

• • •

When I emerge from the steamy bathroom, Sofia’s already under the covers. The light of the late-night news muted on the television casts the room in a quiet, shadowy glow. I drop the towel from around my hips on the floor and slide between the sheets.

She’s facing away from me, her brown hair fanned out across the pillow. And it occurs to me that we had dinner—but no dessert.

Dessert was always my favorite.

I slip down the bed, taking the covers with me, and come eye level with the silk-covered swell of Sofia’s ass. I skim the material up to her waist, baring smooth skin unhindered by panties. My heart beats faster, pumping blood lower, and I press my lips to one cheek, nipping playfully with my teeth.

“Stanton.”

It’s not an urging moan, but a crisp statement. A no.

I pull back. “What’s wrong?”

She pushes her nightshirt back down, covering herself, and turns my way. I slide back up, resting my head on the pillow, just inches from her beautiful face.

“I don’t think we should have sex while I’m home with you.”

Disappointment crashes in, like the roof of an abandoned house. “Why not?”

The possibility that Sofia might be uncomfortable about my feelings for Jenny flickers briefly, but I discount it. She’s always known about Jenn, even before we hooked up that first time, and it’s never bothered her before. Plus, the way I see it, Sofia has nothing to do with Jenny—they’re like two completely different rooms. Buildings, even. Like a barn and a house. Both important but unconnected, serving totally separate purposes.

In the dim light of the room, her eyes look darker, shiny. She opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it. She thinks for a few beats and then starts again. “You should . . . save up that passion, you know? Like a quarterback before the big game?”

I push her hair behind her ear. “And what about you?”

Sofia’s sex drive is as healthy and demanding as my own. We’ve been screwing three to four times a week for the last six months. Doesn’t seem fair that she should have to go cold turkey for the next two weeks.

Her ripe lips stretch into a smile. “I can . . . take care of myself.”

The visual that statement brings with it has my cock straining.

“You’re killing me, darlin’,” I groan.

Her hand rests on my collarbone, then slides up to my jaw, caressing the stubble. “Sorry.”

I mimic her actions, not yet ready to give up on dessert—not entirely sure she wants what she’s suggesting. I cup her cheek, then slide down to where her pulse throbs under my palm.

“Aren’t you going to miss it?” I ask.

“Miss it?”

I take her hand from my jaw and scrape the sensitive tip of her finger with my teeth before sucking it into my mouth, swirling with my tongue. I slide it out with a pop. “Aren’t you going to miss my mouth on you? The way my tongue licks you? The way I spread your legs wide, so I can slide my cock in slow—inch by inch—and you dig your nails into my leg ’cause you need it just that bad?”

She breathes heavy and quick. And she stutters, “Um . . . yes, I guess I’ll miss it.”

“What if I told you I just wanted one last kiss?” I lean closer and run my tongue across her lower lip. “One last taste of your mouth? Could I have it?”

Her eyes glaze over, seeing us behind them, entranced by my words, remembering each moan we’ve shared. Every touch.

“Yes. I’d let you have one more kiss.”

I nip at her chin, her jaw. And whisper, “What if I told you I needed one last taste? One last lick of your sweet, tight cunt? I wouldn’t make you come if you didn’t want me to . . . or I could. Would you let me?”

“Oh God . . .” she moans, but it’s all pleasure. All yearning desire. “Yes . . . yes . . . I’d let you.”