What the hell, I think the next morning, before I even open my eyes.

The bright morning sun is slashing into my face, assaulting me, making me want to die

I’m sore. I know that without twitching a single muscle. Every part of me hurts, even at rest. I’ve never felt so utterly, thoroughly worked over. I’m not one for exercise, so this is a new feeling for me.

What the hell had I done? Had I lugged bricks across town or something?

I cover my head with a pillow and try to go back to sleep, but then I smell this delicious, spicy aftershave, and realize the pillow is positively marinating in it. Yum.

The sheets are softer than mine. Like silk.

I’m in an unfamiliar bed.

And then memory floods back. Of course I’m sore. There can be no doubt why. Max is like a machine. His appetite for sex is just as he said: ravenous. I’d lost track of the number of times he’d brought me to climax. Maybe he’s also kinky, like he said, but if so, he’d kept that under wraps, last night.

After I told him I loved him, and . . . crickets.

I had to say it. I’d been feeling it, and I don’t usually keep my feelings quiet. I told myself I wouldn’t care if he didn’t reciprocate, that it didn’t matter.

But after all that mind-blowing sex, perfect, amazing sex . . . there was one little chink in the night.

He’d just stared at me dumbly, and changed the subject.

Oh, well.

Maybe the sex will be enough, I tell myself.

Taking a deep breath, I tear one eye open and made out a fortress of sheets and pillows. I try to focus on the form next to me, but as my vision clears, I soon realize that that side of his king bed is empty.

I sit up straight in bed, my every muscle protesting, screaming that I should just stay put. I look at the night table. The bedside digital clock proclaims that it’s nine-o-six.

Oh, shit. The kids. What was I thinking?

I pull the sheet off myself. I’m naked. I scan my surroundings. The room is enormous, easily the size of my apartment, and there are massive windows on one wall, with . . . no shades. Holy cow, is Max an exhibitionist, or what? How come I hadn’t noticed, while fucking him, that I was on display for half the city?

Yes, the bed is full of rumpled sheets. I’d always heard that first-time sex hurt, but it hadn’t hurt me. Neither had second-time, or third-time, or fourth-time sex. No, it had been better and better, every time. Considering all our escapades, I’m surprised the bed was in good a condition as it is; that is, still standing. But everything else in the room? Immaculately clean and white. Almost like a hotel room; lacking anything personal. I half-expect there to be a bible in the night table.

Then I inhale and smell . . . bacon.

Ah, bacon.

Easing my legs over the side of the bed, I take my first wobbly steps across the room, scanning the ground for a discarded piece of clothing of his, like a dress shirt. But no, one thing Max’s outward perfection failed to inform me of was that he takes as much care in the perfection house as he does with his appearance.

Oh my gosh, I think, remembering how he’d tread around my apartment like it was a minefield. He must think I am the worst slob.

Then I remember he probably has a maid—forget that, he probably has a team of maids, considering how extra he is—and I don’t feel so bad.

His closet, like I expected, is of the walk-in variety, and I’d say there are no fewer than 100 suits there, all arranged by color. A sea of white dress-shirts takes up an entire wall. I find a freshly starched one that must have just come from the dry cleaners, but it smells like him—like clean, soapy sweetness— and I put it on.

When I go out to the kitchen, Max is there, flipping omelets. He does it with the ease of an experienced chef, except unlike an experience chef, he’s completely naked. So he is an exhibitionist.

“Hey,” he says as I walk in, staring at his enormous cock, which is now flaccid. I can’t believe I had that inside me.

He notices my wide eyes so I pretend to yawn as I lean against the counter. After last night, I’d desperately need the support, since my knees still feel like Jell-O. Our night together clearly had had a positive effect on him. He looks alert and chipper now, and almost as if he’s forgotten yesterday’s horrible meeting already. “So do you ever wear clothes at home?”

He shakes his head. “If you don’t wear them, you don’t have to wash them.”

I gnaw on my lip. “But you could burn something important.”

He laughs. “Not me. I am an expert.”

I didn’t know that about him. “How did you learn to cook?”

He shrugs. “I’ve always known. My mom liked to cook.”

“Really? So your mom . . . she treated you . . .”

“Better? Yeah. I mean, I was her son. She didn’t see a difference between the two of us. That was my dad. But Dan wasn’t into cooking. He couldn’t crack an egg to save her life. So she taught me.” He plates the omelet and points to the stools at the granite topped center island. “Sit. I hope you like eggs.”

I sit down at the table, and he lays the plate in front of me. The omelet looks professional, the bacon perfectly crisp, and there are even two orange slices as garnish. I’ve never had anything so fancy. Honestly, for the past few years, my normal breakfast has been nothing but a handful of Frosted Flakes and black coffee. “It’s nice.”

“Well, it’s not a thousand-dollar frittata, but I guess it’s something,” he teases, opening up a tray filled with neatly arranged K-Kups and holding it out to me. Eureka. I select some fancy dark roast, since I need all the caffeine I can get, and he starts the Keurig up. When the aroma of coffee starts filling the air, I instantly feel my blood moving, again.

I take my first bite, and almost let out a moan. Who knew that eggs could taste this good? They’re fluffy, with cheddar cheese, that melts against my tongue. I take a bigger mouthful, the next time. “I’m impressed again.”

He shrugs like it was nothing and sets the mug of coffee in front of me. Then he lifts me up into his arms. “I wish I could fuck you again, but I’ve got to go into the office and set up a meeting with the board, so I can plead my case to them.”

“Oh.” I blink. I wish I could fuck you again. Of course, that’s all this was. For some reason, I’d pictured something more, us spending all Sunday in bed, together. This sounds like a brush-off. But . . . at least he made me food? “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He shakes his head and starts to walk toward the shower. I try not to focus on the perfection of his naked ass as he moves away from me. “If I don’t get in and set up that meeting right away, it might be too late.”

“Okay.”

For the next five minutes, I stare at my eggs, taking a few disinterested bites as I hear the water from the bathroom turning on. Then, I scrape the remains into the garbage, place the plate in the pristine sink, and go to the bedroom, where I find my dress, underwear, and shoes.

I’m just strapping on my heels when he comes out of the shower, wet, a towel slung on his hips. “You have somewhere to be?”

I don’t. Calvin usually spends Sundays with Joey so that I can take a break. But I suppose I could go over there, anyway. Or maybe I can just go home and bury myself in the covers of my bed, which is what I suddenly want to do. “Well, my brother . . .”

He nods and goes to his large armoire, where he pulls out a t-shirt, socks, and a boxer briefs. “Gotcha. Give him my best.”

I stand there awkwardly in the door, wondering what else to say as I watch him put on his underwear. He goes to the closet for a moment, and comes back in a white dress shirt, then scoops his cuff links off a valet on his desk, just like this is any other day. Of course, this isn’t awkward for Max. He’s done morning afters too many times. He’s used to this.

He looks at me as he snaps on a cuff-link. “Do you need something?”

I press my lips together, fighting the tears that are fighting their way out of my eyes. I knew what this meant to him. I didn’t even believe that I could be the one girl to change his ways. There is absolutely no reason to cry.

But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to as I utter a curt “No,” grab my purse, and head out the door.