Molly’s exuberance for shitty board games was refreshing, as was her excitement for life in general. He’d almost forgotten about that kind of naïveté. That part of him, especially the professor of him, had almost been frozen over completely. Being exposed to a little ray of sunshine couldn’t hurt things.

They had played Sorry! for almost a half hour, and Molly, to Clara’s outward dismay, seemed to become more hyper as the game wore on. The little girl had left her shell and showed more of herself through a few turns of Sorry! than she had all through dinner. And, as Sam imagined, so did he. It was fun.

The energy was still high enough after the game that Molly seemed to ride it like a wave, offering another round of pleading to stay up and watch the movie. And again, to Clara’s immense eye roll, Sam had declared that there was indeed no swearing in the movie—as far he could tell from the warning labels, anyway.

In any event, Sam deiced to smooth things over with a pot of popcorn. Old-fashioned style with just oil and kernels in a stainless steel soup pot. Butter melting on the side. Save for the sound of the subsequent crunching, it kept everyone quiet. But when their popcorn dessert came to a close, there seemed to be nothing left to entertain Molly—especially not the movie, a romantic comedy that seemed to miss the mark on both counts. It was hardly entertaining for Sam, let alone an eight-year-old staying up past her bedtime and past her bowl of popcorn.

Very shortly after, Molly’s head had slumped back against the sofa and she was snoring. Loudly. Sam wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard a little person do that quite so loudly. Clara, who undoubtedly had heard it all, had taken it as a sign to finally put her little rascal to bed. She carried her away, limp and sleeping. Ten minutes later, it was just the two of them, along with the terrible movie.

“Thanks for being such a good sport,” she said, snuggling back into him on the sofa.

“What do you mean?”

“You know.”

“Well, I’m having a great time,” he said. “There’s never been any . . . effort.”

“You’ve been so good to her tonight.”

“I didn’t even have to try.” He wrapped an arm around her. “She’s great.”

“She likes you.”

“Good.” Sam felt lips at his neck, a warm little peck.

“I like you,” she said, still at his neck.

“How do you like this movie?”

“I don’t.”

Sam laid his other hand on her thigh, stroking down, petting. “Should I turn it off?”

“No,” she said.

“We’ll leave it on, then.”

She kissed his neck again. “Yeah.”

“For the sound.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Sam ran his hand upward, slowly, while her mouth sucked gently under his chin. His hand rose even higher until he felt the warmth of her core through her jeans. God, she was already so aroused and he’d barely started touching her. She sighed hard against his bare skin, the air tickling him, melting him. She was melting, too, her body against his and heaving with a shaky breath, warming his skin until he felt flushed and crazy. But then she pulled his hand away from her, getting up from the sofa and walking out of the room. “Wait.”

It was only in her absence that he noticed how hard he was, his cock threatening to punch right through the thin fabric of his dress pants. When did that happen? She had a way of arousing his attention at even the slightest look of bedroom eyes, the most glancing of touches. God, even just the thought of her sometimes.

Sam squirmed and adjusted himself, settling back just before she returned with a nice, heavy, wool blanket. It felt instantly good, draping over and hiding their bodies, hiding whatever those bodies were doing. Now, under the cover of darkness, his hand was free to return. Free to slowly unbutton, unzip, loosen, and slip in. Clara was free to help, guiding his hand over her wet panties, pressing his hand on just the right spot as her legs spread open under the blanket.

Above sea level, the movie played on. Its comedic first quarter had ended, and now it was time for the love story to develop. Usually, Sam would tend to check out at this stage, waiting for the first-meet formalities to be sufficiently set up, waiting, like any man, for the plot to return. But tonight was a different story. Especially below the blanket. Underneath its darkness and warmth, he felt like he’d never want to see a plot ever again. Life, the movie, and his Washington obligations could all go away forever as long as he was entangled in this delicious embrace with Clara. He needed nothing else, especially any more of the usual introspective narration.

“Oh,” she whispered, “You’re so big.” Her hand had been stroking him through his boxer briefs, her squeezes giving him more excuses to reach his full potential. She suddenly sped up progress, slipping her hand inside his waistband and wrapping her hand around him, moving slowly along his length.

Sam tried to stifle the groan, but that would be the only thing he’d try restraining. He leaned back and closed his eyes while she took full control of him, gripping his cock with a certain roughness that made him brace himself, his hips rotating up, thrusting up into her hand, ready for whatever she intended to do to him.

“Does that feel good?” she whispered.

Sam could only let out a little sigh. Her hand moved faster and his sigh turned into moans.

“Shh.”

God, it was like they were teenagers again, hiding their fun behind a bedroom door or underneath the soundtrack of some arbitrary movie. He felt like a high-schooler, obsessed with nothing else but sneaking in as much “studying” as possible, and he loved every minute of it. He felt just like a horny eighteen-year-old, too, as if the blanket had transported him back in time. The only problem was that he’d somehow forgotten how to keep stealthy and quiet about it. But how in the hell could he? This was no fumbling high school girl he was studying with. He was with a woman now. And her touch was devastating.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“What?”

He opened his eyes and chuckled a little. “Okay, okay.” He drew her hand away and held it away while he caught his breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, God, nothing. That’s the problem.”

She laughed and said, “What?”

He didn’t want to explain it to her, how close he’d come to making a mess of her hand and her blanket, and most likely the whole damned living room. Instead, he leaned forward and brought his mouth against hers. His lips tangled with hers, resuming their study session. Their tongues met as he thrust forward into her mouth, and it was time for Sam to repay her generosity, and to maybe bring her to a similar brink of destruction. His hand snuck back inside her panties, brushing against her core. God, she was so wet! The feel of her arousal just for him made him grow impossibly harder again in his pants, but this was for her. It was her turn now to break away from the kiss and lean her head back. Her turn to go limp as their movie played on uselessly. The film had no audience now. It might have even ended, for all he knew. The only thing Sam could hear was her little gasps each time his fingers entered her core, curled and slipped out, each roll of his wrist making her body stiffen and tremble against him.

“Mmm . . .” She started whispering it so quietly, like the sound of someone dreaming of sex. It was distant and drugged-sounding.

“Shh,” he echoed.

Her head rolled against his neck again, her warm face sucking there, licking, and then biting as Sam worked his fingers harder into her.

Her trembling grew and Sam could feel it through the whole sofa now. He knew they were finally getting somewhere in their studies. Biology 101, his biology wanting to mix with hers so badly. Could they do that here? Under this blanket? In this living room? He slipped inside her again, adding another finger and Clara jerked, almost biting down on his neck, before groaning loudly as her core pulsed around his fingers. He kept stroking her—in and out—pressing the palm of his hand against her clit, until the contractions finally ceased and she felt limp against him. She was so fucking sexy, even just standing there, but watching her come undone beneath his hand? He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. So arousing. He wanted his cock inside her next, more than he wanted his next breath.

It must have been on her mind, too—what was currently left of her mind—as she lay backward on the couch, pulling him down on top of her, her body opening up for him. Her mouth grew fiercer at his neck, his lips, and then just ravaging all over his face. Sam’s eyes drifted closed as his hands found her breasts, and the world disappeared again.

Until he felt two hands at his chest pushing off, her body jumping away from his and sitting stiffly upright, panting, her head cocked toward the hallway.

“What is it?” he whispered.

She kept listening for something, her legs closed.

“Clara? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Fuck, had he gone too fast?

She swatted at him. “Shhh!”

Sam moved himself backward slowly, and quietly fixed up his pants. Assuming the worst case scenario—they’d woken the slumbering eight-year-old, sleep-deprived demon—he focused on detaching himself from the heat of just a moment ago, zipping up his pants, careful not to rattle the buckle of his belt. When he’d done his best to compose and dress himself properly, he glanced over to Clara, who now turned to him, red-faced and a little shiny, still glowing with passion, and embarrassment.

“Did you hear something?” Sam asked, no longer having to whisper. They were only just watching a movie.

Clara was smiling and fixing her own pants now. “Sorry, I think I just . . .”

“It’s okay.”

“I just can’t have her find us . . . I thought I heard something.” She finished with her pants, pulled her shirt down, and then grabbed the remote, lowering the volume. She arched her head again toward the stairway, listening.

“We can just cuddle,” Sam said. He couldn’t see her face, but she was laughing and shaking her head. “You don’t want to cuddle?”

Clara sat back against him. “You know what I want to do.”

“Eat popcorn and watch this movie?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Right.”

Sam looked at the screen. He didn’t recognize anyone or anything that was happening. Was it even the same movie?

“You did that on purpose,” she said, speaking normally now. “Didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

“Bringing such a boring movie . . . We didn’t have a chance.”

“Next time we should just forget the movie altogether.”

She laughed. “It was prop, wasn’t it? An excuse?”

“An illusion of respectability.”

“So let’s forget all that,” Clara said. “We need to keep it real.”

“I’d love to.”

“But we’ll probably have to do it somewhere else.” She was touching him again. Her hand was innocently playing with his shirt, rolling her finger in it. “Things got really crazy, really fast.”

“So what about my hotel? Next time. I can cook, show you my skills with the microwave.”

“Those aren’t the skills I care about. I don’t even need dinner, or a movie, or anything. It’s getting bad, Sam.”

He grinned. “Sorry.”

“You’re making me really bad.”

“You think you’re the only one? I’m probably getting fired from both of my jobs.”

Clara froze up once again, but this time not so dramatically. And this time Sam heard it, too. A creaking sound coming from somewhere in the house.

“Could just be the house,” she said, shrugging and settling back into his arms. “It’s an old one.”

They sat there a moment, waiting for another mystery sound. But nothing came.

“So should I start the movie again?”