HE PRESSES HIS MOUTH softly to my collarbone. “You left me hanging last night,” he teases. “I thought I could have you after the movie,” he says as his mouth travels down to my breasts. He gently digs into the camisole of my nightie and frees it, and licks a slow circle around my hard nipple, teasing. “But you fell asleep on me.”

I throw my head back and melt into the soft mattress.

“I want you now,” he says. “God, I’m so hard.”

Oh my… I’m already so turned on, and he’s barely started. “I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet,” I remind him.

“I don’t care.”

I reach for him, and feel his hardness. I want him as badly as he wants me.

He trails his hands to the band of my panties and peels them off slowly. I lift my hips and pull them along with him. I want them off, and I want him inside me. I turn around and clamor to my knees. I’m on all fours, and I want him to take me like this.

A low growl escapes him as he grabs me forcefully by the hips and pulls me closer. I feel his erection pressed against my sex, and I fear we’re being careless but I get lost in the moment. He pulls my long hair around my shoulder and drops soft butterfly kisses down the length of my spine. He sends shivers through me, and when he gets to the bottom of my back, to the tip of my crack, he does something completely unexpected — he bites my ass.

“Kinky boy,” I breathe.

“I love your ass,” he says. “I can’t get enough, and your amazing tits,” he slides his hand up my torso and grabs a handful, and bites my shoulder softly. He’s a biter, this one. John is not really a biter. I don’t know what to think. Do I like it? Yes, I think I do. “Do it again,” I beg. “Bite my ass again.”

He laughs. “Okay, one more nibble, and then I need to grab a condom.”

I’m glad he’s got his head on his shoulders, because I was completely forgetting. We can’t be as free as I am with John. I lie on the cool crisp sheets as I wait for him to have his way with me, any way he wants.

I watch him sliding the latex over his erection, anticipating him inside me, pleasuring me, bringing me to a place I’ve never quite been to before. Our place.

When he finally sinks into me, I almost cry. I can’t let this go. How will I go on, every day, without this? Without him? He presses his hand on my sex as he pounds into me. I moan at every thrust, every hit of my G-spot. I press my hand over his and slide it down over my wetness, until the both of us break apart.

“I love morning sex,” I tell him over breakfast — we’re having pancakes and fruit with freshly whipped cream.

He smirks. “Do you ever have morning sex with John?”

I sigh. I don’t like it when he asks me questions about him, he brings him back into my life, when I’m trying to forget all about him, about my ‘real life’, about Amanda, about having to say goodbye to Eli. “Can we not talk about John?” I ask. “I just want to focus on us.”

He nods and takes a sip from his glass of orange juice. “I’m sorry. I keep doing that. I… I’m just curious about him, about your marriage.”

“Don’t feel bad, Eli. It’s completely normal, given… our situation.” What I’m doing is not fair. I’m putting him in the middle of our marriage and our problems. He doesn’t deserve that. And I know I’m going to hurt him, and it breaks my heart. I watch him as he digs into his pancakes, and he’s so beautiful, so perfect, so funny, and so talented. How could he not find someone else to replace me very soon? I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Maybe not initially, but eventually, soon enough. No, I’ll be the one who will spend the rest of my life remembering him, and wishing I could have just one more touch. I wonder who I’ll think about when I’m very old, and drifting away… Emma and Theo, and John, and Eli?

“So what are we up to today?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject. I also can’t wait to see what he has in store for me. This is his city, and he’s the one in charge.

“I thought I’d take you to Christiania,” he says. “It’s very cool.”

“I’m not sure I’ve heard if it,” I tell him — it certainly wasn’t on my list.

“It’s a hippie commune,” he tells me. “The food is great, and it’s definitely an interesting place to visit.”

“A hippie commune?!”

He laughs. “A bunch of hippies about fifty years ago got together and took over abandoned military barracks and made their own rules,” he explains. “They even have their own flag.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Great street art, and lots of cannabis, if that’s your thing,” he says.

He surprises me. Is he a pot head? “Is that your thing?”

“Not really, but I’ve indulged. I can’t even remember the last time…” he trails off. “Clara was into it.”

Clara, Clara, Clara. I want to know more about her. I picture the tall blonde with big blue eyes. I’ve seen her when I creeped his Facebook feed — yes, I went that far back. She looks like a blonde Emily Blunt, and she was obviously tall, as tall as him in some of the photos, wearing five inch heels, I assume.

It’s hard to reconcile the image of her with me. I suppose the man must not have a type. I mentally scold myself, and tell myself to stop thinking about her. She was the love of his life, and trampled his heart. And I only have him for a week. And that’s exactly the reason I shouldn’t focus on her.

“I can’t wait to see Christiania,” I tell him, and hop to my feet — we’ve got places to go.

This place has rules. I didn’t think a hippie commune would have rules, but there’s a big sign at the front. No photography or running in the Greenlight district, no private cars, no weapons, no hard drugs, and quite a few other ones. Apparently bullet proof vests aren’t allowed. “So glad I left my bullet proof vest at home,” I say to Eli. He laughs — he totally gets my lame sense of humor. John doesn’t — never did.

Floyd and I are instantly fascinated by the place. It is beautiful chaos; stunning street art seems to cover most surfaces, lodging made out of recyclable materials, and marijuana leaf signs abound. Everyone seems so relaxed, as if they don’t have a care in the world. People are smoking, chatting with friends, with dogs in tow. The smell of marijuana permeates the air. There’s an artisan who is working on chairs and tables which appear to be built entirely out of junk. There’s a sign of a happy face on his wall. Smile More, it simply says. A mother laughs with her young son, and two teenagers hold hands, mismatched clothing and torn jeans. I study them, and wonder if they’re happier than those who have chosen a conventional lifestyle; a day job, a mortgage, and a white picket fence.

In the market, there are racks of vintage t-shirts; Bob Marley t-shirts, pot leaf shirts, and the like. There are lovely handmade purses, jewelry, wallets, belts, vests, and all kinds of stuff, all of it colorful. I’m eager to buy something and support the community. I flip through the shirts and settle on an oversized The Doors t-shirt. Jim Morrison’s gorgeous face stares back at me and I smirk. Gabriella Moore would never wear this, not in a million years, but me, whoever I am, wants this. I used to love The Doors when I was younger. My college boyfriend introduced me to them — we used to listen to the greatest hits over and over. I’ve even been to visit Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris.

“That would look great on you,” Eli says, “with nothing but your panties on,” he adds, a little too loudly. Anywhere else and I’d be embarrassed, but we’re in Christiania, the land of the free, of choice, of free love too, I’m sure.

I buy the shirt, five very cool leather purses (one for me, one for Maeve, Corrie and Kayla, and a small one for Emma). I also buy a cool old watch, which I’m sure doesn’t work, for Theo — he’s obsessed with watches these days. For John, I buy a flask — the man loves his brandy. “I didn’t know you were a shopaholic,” Eli teases. He’s eyeing a gorgeous vintage leather satchel — it has his name written all over it. It is pretty pricey; a cool sixty dollars, we’re told. It breaks my heart to see him walk away from it. I dig into my purse, hoping I’ve brought enough money. “Can I have it for fifty-five,” I ask. “It’s all I have left.”

The old man with the dark mustache studies my bag of goods — he must realize that I’ve contributed generously to their little economy. “Sure, love,” he says with a toothless smile.

I’m giddy when I catch up to Eli. I hand him the satchel. “It’s yours. I bought it for you.”

He looks surprised, and a little uncomfortable. “You… you didn’t—”

“I wanted to,” I tell him. “You got me the poetry book, the little mermaid, that beautiful painting, and that pretty paperweight. You’re spoiling me, and I wanted to get something for you too. I can’t repay you enough for all you’ve done.”

He winks. “Oh, you’ve paid me enough.”

Dirty boy.

He’s beaming as he pulls the satchel over his shoulder. “How do I look?”

“Pretty hot hipster, I’d say,” I tease.

He laughs. “Let’s go walk through Pusher Street,” he suggests, and I happily tag along, completely clueless.

There are tons of pot dealers — cannabis, hashish, I’m not sure what you call it. They wear scarves over the bottom of their faces. Eli tells me it’s to not be identified in case they’re raided by the cops. That’s also why there’s no running — because if you take off running, people might think there’s a raid, and it would be chaos. There’s more pot memorabilia. I don’t know what eighty percent of the stuff is, and I feel so uneducated. We stop by a colorful candy store/bakery, but I have a feeling there’s more to this place than what the eye sees. They have cookies, brownies, and lollipops. A playful smile traces Eli’s lips. “You want a lollipop?”

“Are those special lollipops?” I ask.

He grins.

“So I guess I shouldn’t buy any for the kids?”

“Definitely not,” he says. “Would you like a taste?”

“Yes,” I whisper with a glimpse back, as if Mr. Berton, my junior high school principal were right behind me. He caught me smoking once, and I’ll never forget how stupid he made me feel. Gabriella Moore has never done drugs in her life, but this person, the wild, new person I am right this minute, is curious, and just might.

Eli buys us two lollipops. They’re pretty big and they look very tasty. I feel like a kid. “We’ll save them for later,” he says.

We continue our journey through Freetown and take in the sights — this place is like nowhere I’ve ever been to. Tons of graffiti, little houses on unkempt wild gardens. There’s street art of a giant bunny, and a giant bee with the words Honey over Bitches underneath. I try to decipher what the hell that means. We walk up to the canal. It’s peaceful up here.

I set my large bag of goodies next to me as we take a seat by the water. Floyd settles down right beside me. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He grins at me and I know that I could never ever tire of that smile, even if we had a million years together. “I thought you might find it interesting.”

I look out into the distance, over the water. “It’s so nice here.”

“My mother would have loved this place,” he tells me. “She was a free-spirit.”

I smile, not quite sure what to say. I know he misses her.

“What was your mom like?” he asks. “Tell me about her.”

I smile. “She was funny, overprotective, and a little uptight sometimes. I don’t think she would like this place at all.”

He toys with a blade of grass. I study his long fingers.  “I guess our mothers were very different.”

“She loved me so much,” I go on, wanting to tell someone this — I’ve never really talked about my mother to anyone. Once in a while, the kids will ask me questions about her, especially Emma. Unfortunately, Theo doesn’t quite remember her. “She was very protective of me.”

“I think all mothers are.”

“True,” I agree. I know I am. “She never liked John,” I confess. “She was pretty vocal about it. I mean… not right in front of him but…”

His brow curves with a curious expression. “Why not?”

“She thought he was a bit controlling, a bit of a narcissist. She resented the fact that I left my job to take care of the kids when he’s home all day. She always saw me as a modern woman, and I guess I disappointed her.”

“I disappointed my mother too when I moved out here,” he says. “I think we all do.”

“That’s why we were fighting when she died,” I finally confess, the words painful to utter. “I told her to mind her own business and get out of my life… those were the exact words I used before hanging up on her. Those were the last words I ever spoke to her.”

He wraps an arm around me, and the both of us are silent for the longest time.

“She was out with her two best friends for a night on the town, when they got T-boned by a pick-up truck on the way home. She was sitting in the passenger seat and died instantly. Her friends survived, but one of them is paralyzed from the waist down.”

He squeezes me tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

“It happened only a week after we last spoke. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You can’t re-hash the past, Gabriella. You’re slowly drowning yourself if you do.”

“I know… but I can’t stop obsessing about it. It’s all I’ve thought about until…”

“Until what…”

“Until I met you,” I confess. “Now you’re all I think about.”

“Happy thoughts,” he says with a playful grin. “That’s good.”

“Sexy, happy thoughts.” I grin like an idiot.

And he kisses me.