CHAPTER EIGHT

Ridge

 

She’s been here five weeks. There are some noticeable changes around the house. For one thing, Lydia doesn’t shriek like she’s being murdered every morning when it’s time to get up. She’s still grumpy as all hell, but she’s more on the surly and slow-moving end of the scale now instead of the screaming maniac section she used to occupy.

In the past, I have personally carried Lydia into the bathroom at 7:00 a.m., sat her on the toilet and washed her face while she sat there howling. I enjoy not having to do that. The first nanny, the one who was supposed to relieve me of before school responsibilities, used to sit in Lydia’s room and cry because she wouldn’t cooperate. I, of course, had to then wash and dress my daughter while her nanny wept in frustration. Not that I blame the woman. There have been times I could have howled at the heavens over this kid’s attitude in the mornings. Saying she isn’t a morning person is like saying that Robert E. Lee was kind of a racist.

She’s not a sunny little sweetheart at breakfast, but she eats better and answers the occasional question with words instead of grunts. Reva keeps her to a schedule, does a lot of arts and crafts with her and plays reading games. I don’t have to charge the iPad every night, which means she’s not using the tablet as much. She’s getting attention. When I took Lydia to the movies on Sunday, she asked why Reva didn’t come. She told me twice during the movie that Reva would’ve liked it. So she’s showing attachment, like it’s a good relationship.

I see them together. The way Reva gets down to Lydia’s level and talks to her, the reassuring and gentle way she has with her—and the high expectations as well. The shoes are put away. She says thank you more often. These are things I notice, good things that reinforce my belief that I made the right call when I hired this nanny.

The downside is this—I like the woman. Not in the way I like Caroline, my fifty-eight-year-old secretary—which is with fond respect reserved for those I find useful and pleasant. For one thing, Reva’s not always pleasant. She’s always honest, and she always has an opinion. She doesn’t take any crap off me, and she’s corrected me in front of Lydia a couple of times—once about a vocabulary word, which I guess since she was a teacher is understandable, but once about how far it is to Disneyland. That one was irritating because when I looked it up she was fucking right.

Her intelligence and outspokenness are sometimes annoying, but I like that Lydia gets to see a strong woman speaking her mind. Even when she’s disagreeing with me. I want to be the ultimate authority in my home. I want to be right all the time. But I don’t want my daughter to fear me like a god, like I am never to be questioned or contradicted. Because someday she’ll have a relationship with a man—god willing not for thirty years or so—and I don’t want her in silent awe of his every word.

So part of being the best father I can be is letting the hot nanny argue with me at the dinner table. Another part is sitting down and watching some damn My Little Pony we’ve seen six times, but this time with Reva on the couch. Reva whose skin has that intoxicating, sugary smell like something I want to eat. She’s funny—her sarcastic commentary on the characters’ stupid choices always makes me want to laugh. I won’t, of course. I hold it in. I feel like that’s all I do now she lives with us—hide what I’m feeling.

If I think something she says is funny, I don’t laugh. If I want to kiss her, I don’t. If I want to tell her to shut up, I don’t. If I want to rip her clothes off, I don’t. I just hold it in. The restraint is taking a lot of energy.

I look at her and listen to her, and I find her attractive. More every day. The way a man looks at a woman he wants, the way her every word and expression take on extra weight. I take notice of everything she does, of the way she puts jam on her toast and the way she bites her lip sometimes when she looks at me. I can’t let myself go down that road. I can’t imagine that she wants me the way I want her. If I let myself believe it, there’ll be no stopping me. I already feel like I’m trying to hold back a runaway train. Like there’s going to be no end to the torment of being so near her all the time but being unable to touch her, to tell her things, to come up behind her at the table and move her hair aside and put my mouth to her throat. It feels like it would be the most natural thing in the world to kiss her, to touch her. Like she was made for me. I find myself more and more often thinking of her at night, or when I’m in the shower. When I can’t restrain myself anymore.

So when she tells me that she gave Mrs. Whitman the night off and that she’s cooking dinner, I hope that maybe she can’t cook. She’s joked about it, that she only made Lean Cuisines and stuff like that. So maybe it’ll be frozen pizza, something disgusting. Something to make me like her less. When I come home, Lydia runs out of the kitchen and into my arms. I swing her around and notice she’s got flour all over her clothes.

“What have you been doing?” I ask, “Making a volcano?”

“Nope. I made cookies for dessert!” she says proudly. She’s so happy, just beaming. I kiss her cheek and put her down, “Everything’s almost ready, go wash up!” she says, sounding for a minute just like Reva.

I roll up my sleeves and scrub my hands. I rub my hands over my face, steeling myself for the ordeal of eating with Reva, of trying to eat when the pull of her makes me lose my appetite for anything but her. I sit at the table and wait. Reva brings out plates of what looks like pot roast with potatoes and carrots. Lydia comes slowly, solemnly carrying a gravy boat that she places beside me. It smells peppery. I tell them it looks great.

Lydia sits down and glares at the carrots and looks at Reva, “If I eat them all, what do I get?”

“An adequate supply of Vitamin A,” she deadpans, “eat some of them.”

“No Barefoot Contessa on tonight to bribe her?” I say teasingly, thinking of the first meal we shared at this table.

“I doubt it. If you eat it all, I might let you out of drying the dishes,” she offers.

My daughter looks appalled, “Wait, I have to do dishes?”

“Yes. One of these days, you’ll have to do stuff for yourself and I want you to know how,” Reva says.

“Actually, she has a trust fund. It’s unlikely she won’t have household staff,” I say.

“She can still learn to take care of herself. So if the maid gets sick, Lydia doesn’t starve to death in squalor,” Reva says.

I try the pot roast. It’s fine. It’s not disgusting. It’s just okay. So I try to be nice and make small talk.

“Where did you learn to make pot roast?”

“Oh, it’s my aunt’s recipe. It’s her total specialty. We had it at like every holiday and birthday ever when I was growing up. It didn’t matter if it was Easter dinner or if we were playing with water guns outside because it was so hot. We were still having pot roast. That was the thing she cooks. And she taught it to me. I’m not even a really big meat eater, but it’s all those great memories of running around with my cousins and just a bunch of us around the table…” she trails off, looks at Lydia.

I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking my daughter is missing out. She doesn’t have a big extended family or cousins to play with. She just has me and the staff and the security guards. I feel defensive, angry even. I don’t say anything. Once more, I hold it in.

“I cut up some potatoes,” Lydia says.

“She’s too little to be using a knife,” I say flatly.

“I was right there, and she did a really good job,” Reva says, making my daughter beam proudly over something I don’t want her doing.

“She won’t be using anything but a butter knife for at least another two years. Take care to remember that,” I say and take another bite.

Reva looks like she’s about to say something back but thinks better of it. Smart woman. I’m still irritable from hearing her happy memories about cousins and water guns and huge, loving families. Like Lydia’s missing out on something. Now is not the moment to cross me.

Lydia chatters about school, tells us all about learning Tai Chi in PE. Reva says that she used to play dodgeball in PE, but she went to public school.

“What’s public school?” Lydia says, puzzled.

“It’s where the peasants go,” Reva says with a laugh, “It’s regular school. Not like the one you go to or the one I taught at. Those are special and have more resources—more money and supplies. At public school, I learned reading and math and social studies. We didn’t really do art or music or Tai Chi. In PE we just chased each other or threw balls at each other,” she says.

“Oh, that sounds boring. And, like, you got hit with balls.”

“I did. A lot. Then I practiced running and got faster, and then they couldn’t catch me, and I could get out of the way when they threw dodgeballs at me.”

“Good idea,” Lydia says.

We finish eating. Lydia eats enough carrots that she’s excused from dish duty. Reva insists on not leaving dirty dishes for Mrs. Whitman to come back to. So I give Lydia her bath while Reva washes the dishes. It feels strange, like we’re dividing up tasks the way parents do—the way married people do. I shake it off and listen to Lydia play mermaids for a while, until it’s time to wash her hair and she thrashes and flails and demands that Reva wash her hair.

“She doesn’t get soap bubbles in my ears!” she howls.

“I’m washing your hair,” I tell her. It’s not about my daughter preferring her nanny over me. It’s about not giving in to pointless demands.

“No!”

“Cover your ears if you want to,” I tell her.

“I have to cover my eyes so you don’t get soap in them,” she huff, “I can’t do both!”

I wash her hair, which is tricky with her trying to squirm away. By the time I’m done, I’m soaking wet. Once she’s out of the tub safely and wrapped in her towel, I go change clothes. When I return, Lydia is snuggled in bed with Reva listening to a chapter book. I linger in the doorway listening. It’s a silly book about a child hiding from the school bus line, and my daughter is laughing like a loon at it. Reva giggles, too, their heads together. At the end of the chapter, Reva gets up, kisses her forehead and tells her to have sweet dreams. When she leaves us alone, Lydia stares after her for a minute. I was going to rock Lydia in the chair and read with her, but it seems silly—she’s already been read to, already been tucked in. I feel at loose ends as I bend over and kiss her good night.

“I’ll sit with you if you want to,” she offers generously. I shake my head.

“You get some sleep, baby girl,” I say a little sadly.

I’m ready to kick back and watch some ESPN, unplug my brain for a while. I grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and head for the couch. It’s already occupied. Reva is on the couch watching some kind of celebrity show. There seem to be a lot of flashy women arguing about salads. I look from the TV to her. She has a TV in her room. She should go there. I hesitate, think about retreating, since I have a TV in my bedroom as well, of course. But there’s something about relinquishing my turf after she tucked my daughter into bed. I feel like staking a claim. Even if it’s just my couch, my living room.

I sit down, not beside her but near her. She looks up from her phone, tucks her sock feet up underneath her.

“You can change the channel if you want,” she says, “I’ll just go to my room.”

“Don’t, you can stay,” I say. I have no idea why, except perhaps because I’m a moron. I want her to go watch her own TV, let me have my ESPN and solitude, right? Right?
She stays. I feel a surge of triumph. Like I really wanted her to stay. I switch the channel to ESPN almost defiantly. It’s on a commercial. For an erectile dysfunction medicine. Great. I shut my eyes briefly. As if there were anything to make this more awkward, trying to sit on the couch with the incredibly sexy nanny, it would be an ad showing a couple cavorting happily and suggestively on a beach with a voiceover about erections. You’d think the embarrassment would make me lose my hard on, but you’d be wrong. Because I get a whiff of her sugary scent and I want to gather her in my arms. I can’t remember ever being so attracted to anyone in my life.

“How’s, um, your brother?” I ask.

“He’s good. He really likes working in fast food. He’s great at patterns and repetitive tasks. I’m just—I’m a little worried about him.”

“Why? I mean, it sounds as though he’s found a job that suits him, allows him to be productive and have some independence,” I say.

“He isn’t eligible for his art therapy at the center anymore. Benny loves his art and music classes at the therapy center, but because he’s got a job now, he doesn’t qualify for services. Essentially, he’s accomplished too much so they’re taking away his supports even though it’s basically his entire social life and his group of friends. He can’t drive or socialize as easily as most young adults—I hate this for him. This is one of the reasons I wanted to open my own center! I could get investors, donors to help me provide services like OT as well as art and music programs, and I wouldn’t punish patients for being successful!”

She’s so passionate, her eyes alight when she talks about her dream, about the facility that would serve everyone. It’s easy to see that she’s dedicated to helping people, that even her fondest wish is more about her brother’s well-being than her own. I find it moving that she cares for him so deeply, wants so much to help others with the same struggle. It’s admirable, sure, but more than that. It’s beautiful. Just like the tenderness she shows my daughter is beautiful. It makes her something more than merely an attractive woman taking up space in my house. It’s too late for me. I see her, how she wants something worth fighting for, how she is fully human with dreams and desires.

It makes me want her more. Everything I learn about her makes me want her more. Makes me think of her and like her. It’s inconvenient that she’s so likeable as well as so sexy. She’s a deadly combination.

“A center like that would help a lot of people. It’s like the grants and services are mostly focused on early intervention, on preschool and elementary kids. Which is great, and so important, but these kids age out of available services. It doesn’t mean they don’t need the therapies, just that it’s harder to get them and qualify for them—especially to afford them. My parents spent a fortune on OT and PT for Benny growing up. My dad’s a judge, I mean we were pretty well off as far as like upper middle class. Imagine somebody who’s a welder or a waitress having a kid like Benny with special needs and what they could afford. My mom and dad literally sold their house and moved us to a much smaller one—no more pool, no more playroom—three bedrooms, two baths, living room and kitchen—so they could afford the resources Benny needed. Think what a facility with great OT plus art and music and daily living skills classes could accomplish!”

“Why haven’t you done that?” I ask, unsure why she’s sitting in my living room and employed as a nanny when she has bigger plans and interests than that.

“Uh, money,” she says as if I’m the stupidest person alive, “and experience too. That’s why I was at the charter school—getting hands on experience with inclusive classrooms and trying to learn from the administrator. I need investors and people to help me set up a nonprofit and manage it. And all of that takes PR and, like, a fortune. Which I don’t have.”

“I’m sure you can save some money during your tenure as Lydia’s nanny, put that toward a start-up,” I say mildly.

“I have some…recurring expenses,” she says uncomfortably.

I decide not to tell her I know about the debt. I don’t want to embarrass her. I nod, look at the TV. I’m not really watching it. I’m just trying to break the intense stare I was giving her. She’s opening up to me, showing me who she really is. She’s endearing and brave and sweet. It’s difficult not to kiss her.

“Anyway,” she says with a sigh, “I wanted to check with you first—I want to schedule a play date for Lydia with a couple of kids from her class. Socialization is such a major part of the primary grades. She’d love it, and I’m thinking just Trinity and Chloe this time. What do you think?”

“Last names,” I say.

“What?”

“What are their last names?” I repeat.

“Uh, I think Trinity’s last name is Dawson. I don’t know about Chloe. Why? I mean, I have the class web site so I can email the parents about a day and time.”

“That’s not the issue. I don’t know the parents. I haven’t had a chance to do a basic background check, make sure we’re not dealing with anyone who’s a sex offender or potentially affiliated with the Rativan syndicate…” I say.

“Whoa! I’ll be with her the whole time. I was gonna take them bowling or something. I wasn’t sending her with a stranger to go visit their weird Uncle Mark in the halfway house or something. Calm down,” she giggles a little.

“You think I’m paranoid,” I say tightly.

“I think you should have a glass of wine or three and try to unwind a little. No offense, but you’re pretty tightly wound.”

I level her a glare, trying to quell her cheeky accusation that I need a drink.

“For real, this level of tension and stress—not good for your health,” Reva advises. As if she isn’t my employee. As if she isn’t younger than me, less experienced. As if, in fact, she’s older and wiser and being compassionate.

“And drinking would be good for my health?” I say archly.

“It’s better than high blood pressure. You will pop a clot one of these days from being this hyper all the time.”

“I’m vigilant. It’s part of parenthood as well as part of my profession,” I say stiffly.

“Four,” she pronounces. “At first I said a glass or three, but you for sure need like four. You’re very—there’s not even a word for it. You seriously think I’d be putting Lydia in danger by taking her and two other kindergarteners for an afternoon of fun? I wasn’t planning on going skydiving!”

“Okay, fine. I need a glass. Maybe one,” I say, feeling her playfulness take the edge off my mood.

I go to the kitchen and pour two glasses of a good pinot noir I got from Napa. I hand her one. She raises an eyebrow at me.

“You’re off the clock. I’m not even sure I need this to help me unwind. I feel fairly relaxed,” I say, rolling my right shoulder a little to ease a crick in my neck.

“Here,” she says, setting her wine down on the end table, “I can help with that.”

Reva puts her hands on my right shoulder. I pull away, look at her sharply.

“What? I taught kickboxing. You’d be surprised how much you hurt your neck when you do kickboxing wrong. I know what to do,” she says insistently.

I lean forward, turn so my back is toward her. She kneads and squeezes my shoulder, easing the tightness by my neck. Her hands are warm and strong, competent. I should be thinking what clinical skill she has at what amounts to sports massage. Instead, I’m thinking filthy things about her hands on my body. This is not helpful to the general situation. My neck feels better, but I’m hard and I’m annoyed. If she were a bit less innocent, I’d think she was tormenting me on purpose. Just to test my resolve, see if I’m strong enough to resist making a move on her.

“Thanks,” I say tersely.

I move away from her hands. But I’m entranced. I can’t stop looking at her. She takes a sip of wine, so casual. I drain my glass and set it down. I never have more than one drink—a relic of growing up with my mother’s perpetual intoxication and uselessness. I keep my wits about me, and I take pride in that. If the wine was supposed to mellow me, help me relax, it hasn’t. It’s only muffled the sense of strangeness I have at sitting in my own home with a woman I find so completely attractive. I know I should go to my office, to my room, to the damn shower, anywhere. I stay on the couch beside her. When did I sit beside her? There was space between us, I thought. That space has been swallowed up until I’m near enough to touch her hair.

“Do you want another glass?” she offers, “I’ll get up and get it.”

“No, thank you,” I say carefully.

“It’s really good,” she says encouragingly.

I shake my head.

“I won’t poison you,” she says playfully, smiling.

“I’m not being paranoid,” I say a little tightly, “I have a one-drink limit.”

“You’re not driving,” she teases, “unless you have someplace else to go.”

“I’m staying in.”

“Okay,” she said, her smile turning shy, less playful.

“I don’t drink very much. My mother was—she didn’t handle it well when my father left. She was intoxicated most of the time.”

“That’s so sad,” Reva says, her hand on mine. I don’t pull back this time. My fingers close around hers.

“It is sad, I suppose. She was a very kind person before that. She read to me at night, folded my shirts and put them in the drawer in this perfect stack,” my throat feels tight. I haven’t thought of that in years, her slow transformation from loving mother to hopeless drunk, “then he left and, little by little, so did she. First it was my laundry in a pile on the bed for me to fold. Then it was running out of clean clothes, and she was too tired to check my homework. After that, in just a couple months, it was like she didn’t know I was there anymore. She used to make dinner every night, and at some point she just started buying frozen pizzas I could cook—I was seven. After a while she didn’t even do that. Whatever money we had left went to the liquor store with her.”

I take a long breath and let it out. Reva is in my arms. I’m not sure how that happened. I don’t remember reaching for her. I don’t remember her reaching for me. I only know that she’s holding me. She’s whispering something. My eyes are shut, my face buried in her neck, her hair. Her long hair that smells like sugary vanilla.

“You must have been so scared. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Ridge,” she says, “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

For the first time, it occurs to me that she’s right. I was scared. I don’t remember it that way usually, when I bother to think of my childhood at all. I remember being angry all the time. I remember hating my mother, hating my teachers, the other kids, everyone. I remember a dull, gray, angry haze for years. Now that Reva’s said it, what comes back to me is cold. Being cold because the heat was turned off, probably because she didn’t pay the bill. Having to go to school in dirty clothes, afraid I’d be bullied for it. Riding the bus sick to my stomach from having no breakfast, or telling the school nurse not to call my mom when I had a fever, lying to say she’s at work when she was probably passed out on the couch or out with god knows who.

I hold Reva tighter. I feel a tremor in my arms, a shudder run through me from having her in my arms, the yielding of her body, soft and warm against mine. I kiss her hair. I hold her to my chest, my chin on top of her head. She feels so good in my arms, so perfect. I need to keep holding her. She hasn’t pulled away. She seems content to hold on to me. I’m sure as hell not moving.

Slowly, she raises her face to mine. Her pretty eyes are bright with unshed tears. Her lips hover inches from mine, waiting to be kissed. I don’t stop. I don’t think. I don’t even remember to take a breath. I just give in. All these weeks of pent up desire hum at the surface, electric.

I kiss her. My mouth finds hers almost on its own. Reva’s lips lock with mine. I suck her bottom lip, kiss her softly. Her arms are looped around my neck like we’re slow dancing in high school. I’m careful with her, gentle. I put my hands on her back. I want to cup her bottom, lift her into my lap, but I hesitate. I don’t want to startle her, scare her off. I’m tentative, almost breathless.

Kissing Reva is intoxicating. She rises up in my arms, swings her leg across my lap. I have her in my hands now, my tongue in her mouth as she kneels over me. I feel like I’ve lost my head. My animal instincts take over. The weight and warmth of her in my lap—it triggers something in me. It feels volcanic, a rush of heat, a desire so powerful it may sweep me away or burn me up entirely. I need her like breath, like shelter and food. She is upon me, her mouth on mine, her hair falling around my face in a curtain of silk, luscious.

She is a runner. I feel that, feel the muscles of her strong thighs now as they curve under my hands. Reva unbuttons my shirt. I feel so keyed up, my hands don’t know where to starts. She’s undressing me. Yes. This is what I’ve wanted, what I’ve thought of all the time since the day she walked into my office. Her hands opening my shirt, her palms pressed flat against my chest. She never breaks the kiss. If she breaks the kiss, it might break the spell, is what I’m thinking. Because desire has made me irrational. I want her so bad I’m shaking, my hands sliding under her shirt and roaming over her bare back. Her skin is so soft under my hands. I let go of her so she can push my sleeves down my arms and strip off my shirt. Her shirt will be a problem because it’s a pullover. I’ll have to stop kissing her for two seconds so I can get her shirt off, and I’m not sure I can do that. I’m not sure I can stop kissing her. My tongue in her mouth, searching, stroking, seems to be the only connection I have to reality. I never want to stop.

Reva is the one who pushes me away softly to pull off her shirt. She’s there in my lap, topless, like a gift. I feast my eyes on her beautiful, high breasts, the slope of her shoulders, the deep rose of her tight nipples. I dip my head, catch one in my lips and tug at it. Her body arches toward me, her fingers rake through my hair giving me all the answer I need. I swirl my tongue over her nipple and love the sensation of it beading harder in my mouth. I withdraw my mouth, blow lightly across her wet, puckered skin and watch her squirm. She rests her hands on my shoulders, kisses me again, a full, deeply sexual kiss. I feel it through my entire body, fierce and hot as her tongue in my mouth.

I feel her teeth scrape my bottom lip as I reach for her pants. They’re leggings, which I hate because they are so hard to remove. Unlike a skirt, which is always convenient. I scowl against her mouth as she raises up, and I try to maneuver stretchy knit pants down her legs. Finally, she climbs off me and yanks them down, kicking them away. I gather her back into my lap greedily. She is all long legs, hot smooth skin. I slide my hands up her bare thighs, loving the heat I feel through her panties, my fingers curling inside the elastic to brush the soft slickness of her pussy. She moans out loud.

“Oh God, yes,” I groan against her mouth. I slide one finger along the length of her cleft to feel her wetness, the sensitive flutter of her response to my intimate touch. It feels better than anything. I feel my cock stiffen painfully, and I drag my teeth along her full bottom lip. Her head falls back so I kiss her neck, sucking and biting. She digs her fingers into my shoulders and holds on tight.

I’m teasing her senseless, high on the power I feel. My lightest touch must send a jolt of pleasure through her body by the way she reacts. My finger dipping into her tightness makes her jerk in my arms. I have never wanted anyone the way I want this woman. I have her breast filling my palm, my fingers drawing back to pluck at her nipple. She reaches between us to unbutton my pants, to slide the zipper down. It’s a surreal, breathless moment. I’m going to have her at last. Right now. This second. Raw and real, her skin on mine. She is lush and tight. I explore her with my fingertips, readying her for me.

I want Reva so badly. I whisper to her, my teeth gritted against the onslaught of arousal, “Do you want this?”

“Yes—yes, Ridge, I want you!” she pants.

Holding her by her thighs, I roll her onto her back. She stretches out at full length beneath me on the couch. I take in all of her in one swift glance—the creamy apricot skin, the curve of her hips, the pink-tipped breasts, the golden hair tumbled loose around her head, the inviting, damp patch of curls where her thighs meet. I kick my pants off, impatient for our joining. I mount her, her legs spread wide. My cock is iron-hard, my pulse pounding crazily as I breach the resistance of her tight pussy and spear her right to the core. Her cry is pleasure and anguish. I sink into her all the way to the hilt. She takes all of me at once. I know the pressure must be heavy from the restless way she twists her hips. I try to slow down, to let her adjust to the feel of me, the size of me. I’m rock hard. She’s melting around me, softness and heat like lava coursing around my cock as I thrust again.

Each time I withdraw from her, she urges me back with her legs, pulling me to her. Her face is a gorgeous pout of arousal, cheeks flushed and lips swollen from our urgent kisses. She looks perfect beneath me. I love being on top of her, covering and consuming her, taking her. My thickness parts her sweet, wet folds. She whimpers, her hands running up and down my arms as I brace myself above her.

“Please,” she says hoarsely, “I want all of you on top of me.”

“No. I’ll crush you,” I manage to bite out, my control right on edge.

“Ridge, I need you,” she pants, her arms grappling me down closer to her.

I relent, letting more of my weight on to her. When my chest is against hers, those sensitive nipples beading against the hardness of my chest, when the skin of our stomachs touches, that full body contact makes my breath hiss between my teeth. The sensation is so powerful, like a lick of flames up my body consuming me. I drive into her, wanting to roar with the passion welling up inside me. Reva climaxes suddenly, bucking beneath me, her head flinging wildly to one side, her legs jerking around me as she milks my orgasm from me with the tight clench of her body. She drains me as white-hot pleasure takes me. My vision goes dark, and my mouth fixes on hers. Reva’s tongue is in my mouth as I come. I suck it as I pump into her. Her body writhes under me, taking it all. I moan with the unexpected intensity of it. I kiss her chin, her jaw. She clutches me to her chest, kissing my hair.

The intimacy of it nearly undoes me. Reality sweeps back in as I struggle to free myself of her grasping arms, her legs tangled up with mine.

“That was incredible,” she says, “Why did we wait so long?”