In the morning, he makes me a breakfast of eggs and potatoes, and I moan as I eat.

“You can’t make those sounds. They’re too sexy,” he warns me at the island counter.

“Have you tried your rosemary potatoes?” I ask, waving a forkful. “They’re heaven on my tongue.”

He spears one from his plate, pops it in his mouth, and smiles as he chews. “You’re heaven on my tongue. Do you have any idea how good you taste?”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “I have no idea how I taste and don’t need to know.”

He kisses my jaw. “You taste ridiculously arousing.” He takes my hand and places it on the bulge in his boxer shorts.

“Does that mean your potatoes turned you on?”

“It was either you or the potatoes.”

“Let’s see who can go the distance.” I point to the couch, giving him an order. “Sit down, Miles.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He parks himself on his couch, and I get down on my knees, taking him between my lips for the first time. He’s even better than his breakfast—thick and hard and pulsing in my mouth. I suck him deep, gripping the base as I go, dragging my nails along his thighs and driving him wild.

Like this, with me on the floor and him grunting and growling, I feel empowered. I feel wildly alive and incredibly happy, even though I’m on my knees. This man did out-of-this-world things to my body last night, making me feel adored, and now it’s my turn to make him the center of attention. My tongue and my lips and my mouth show him how much I love making him cry out in pleasure too. Because soon, that’s where he is, thrusting and groaning and coming. I drink him down, swallowing the taste of him. When I stand, he’s slouched on the cushions, his eyes glossy, his smile dopey.

I run my fingers down his bare chest. “Say it. Say I turn you on more than potatoes.”

Laughing, he brings me next to him, wraps his arms around my waist, and buries his face in my neck. “I didn’t think this was even possible. But you turn me on more than breakfast.”

I laugh, and he nuzzles me.

I think—no, I’m sure—I could do this for a long, long time.

* * *

After breakfast and a shower, I’m tempted to ask where we’re going and what he wants beyond one night, but a decade of dead-end relationships keeps my mouth closed. Instead, as I dry off, I chew on the thought and somehow manage to bite off a small portion of it.

“So is this a one-time thing, or are we thinking it could be multiples?” The words come out equally sassy and clunky. But I feel neither sassy nor clunky about the prospect of more time with him. The question is terrifying because I want this to be an all-time thing.

I want us.

I try again, tacking on an addendum.

“You know, more than once and all,” I say awkwardly, because there is literally no graceful way to ask a man’s intentions. I punctuate my sentence with a too-bright smile since, when in doubt of your reception, act happy. “Because last night was so good. And I thought, yeah, maybe more.”

Is there an escape hatch anywhere near me? I sound like I’ve taken a master class in inserting my foot into my mouth.

“I mean, if you want more with me.” A relationship. A family. A team.

I practically squeak out the question, wishing the floor would swallow me up and spit me out with a do-over card I can cash in.

Miles narrows his brows, turning to meet my gaze. The look in his eyes is thoughtful, curious. He seems to study my face, as if he’s searching for something—perhaps why I’ve morphed into a complete and absolute dork.

His tone is introspective as he asks, “What do you want it to be, Roxy?”

Not a question. That’s what I want.

I want us to be unquestionable. I want you to take the baton and fix my botched attempts to ask you to be mine.

But his question-for-an-answer is enough for me to backpedal and try to laugh it off. “It’s hard for my plus-one brain to think straight with all these orgasms you’ve given me.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, his expression remaining stony. Then he brings me in close, grinning as he wraps his arms around me. “I can give you more if you’d like.”

That’s my answer. That’s unquestionable. This is sex. My heart plummets, crashing to the floor in a sputtering puddle of emotions. A sob crawls up my throat, trying to fight its way out, but I shove it back down.

These are just pregnancy emotions.

Just hormones.

There is no need to be upset.

He has his life, I have mine, and we’ve always been clear on where we stand.

Even if the organ in my chest has been julienned by a Cuisinart, my mind understands.

Sex is clear. Sex fits our expectations. We can do sex.

And we do, and when we’re done with a morning round, I ask if he wants to come back with me to see the place later today. “Plus-one and all,” I add, since I want him to know I understand him.

He glances at the time. It’s nearly noon. “I need to pick up Ben and take him to a swim class. Can we check it out along the way?”

Even better. We’re back to being our little team. And our little team knows how to operate.

“Sounds perfect.”

Even though there’s something else that would have been even more perfect. But that’s not in the cards.