The springs creak when he rolls to face me, nibbling a path from my shoulder to my jaw. “Well this is unexpected,” he says.

I want to ask him how long I’ve been out here, but he wipes away all organized thought, leaving only a trail of fire behind as his hand slides up from my hip, over my breast to my neck.

“You didn’t want to fuck in the bed?” he asks, speaking into a kiss against my jaw. “I would have come to you.”

He shifts away just enough to let me explore with my palms: the solid expanse of his chest, the hair on his navel, and lower, to where he’s hard for me, shifting into my palm when I curl a fist around him.

Like this he moves for a few tight breaths, sucking at my neck, cupping my breasts in his rough hands. But every inch of my skin feels tight and aching—I need him over me, inside.

“I want . . .”

His mouth hovers over my nipple, teeth bared. “Want?”

I try to blame my impatience on the fact that it’s the middle of the night, and I’ve somehow wandered into Calvin’s bed, and he’s totally fine with it—I don’t want to lose a single second of this by either of us overthinking it. So I urge him over me, staring up at him in the dark.

“Did you get enough dinner?” he asks, kissing from my breast slowly up to my neck.

I don’t know why he’s joking about the steak right now, but it doesn’t even matter because I can feel him press against me, and then he shifts his hips and he’s sliding inside with a moan that vibrates against my throat.

The stretch of him inside me is so new, so unexpected, that I cry out and he turns his head, covering my open mouth with his. He says something I can’t make out, but it’s probably less about the words themselves than it is about my inability to process beyond the feel of him sliding in, and back out of me.

It seems unreal that he’s here, moving, pulling my legs around his waist. He’s not quiet—he lets out a gust of pleasure with every thrust, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this wild: pushing up into him, digging my nails in his back, begging him for faster, for harder.

Then he’s behind me—how, it was so fast—and I feel the sharp sting of his hand, the satisfied grunt he makes when I cry out. And then I’m over him, his hands on my breasts, fingers drawing maddening circles around the peaks.

“Are you close?” His voice is tight with restraint.

“Yes.”

“Fuck. Good.” His hands come to my hips, and he starts working himself up into me, hurried and deeper. “It feels so good.”

And it does. My skin feels staticky, my spine is tight with the spiral of pleasure.

“Jump on me,” he groans.

“. . . Jump?”

“Rabbit,” he growls. “Like in a field. Carrots.”

With a gasp, I startle awake into the darkness of my bedroom. The sheets are a tangle at my feet. My door is still closed, and I am completely alone with my hand down my pants.

Bolting upright, I lean forward, listening for any sound of activity outside the door. There’s a quiet rustle, a squeak of the sofa bed springs. According to my clock, it’s 1:48 a.m. Is Calvin awake? Oh my God, did I wake him up by moaning? Was I loudly . . . masturbating?

I want to throw myself off the fire escape outside my window. This is only the first night having Calvin outside my room, and already I’m having sex dreams about him.

I am so fucking doomed.

Nobody thinks they’re a morning person—I’m no exception. I’m not mean or one of those people who requires a sonic boom to get me out of bed, I just tend to stumble around, blurry, for a few minutes before the hamster wheel upstairs starts rolling smoothly.

Wednesday morning, I wake, push myself up, scrub my face, and stand. Like I do every morning, I walk to the kitchen to get the coffee started. No doubt my straight hair has been teased into a campfire. My pajamas are twisted around my torso. I have dragon breath.

A deep, gravelly voice mumbles, “Hey.”

I jump back, pressing my palm to my chest. “Ohshitthat’sright—”

Apparently I’d completely forgotten that I have a husband. A husband with a penchant for showing skin.

And as soon as I see him, I remember my dream—the You didn’t want to fuck in the bed?—the endless length of him sliding inside, the sting of his hand across my ass—and a blistering flush spreads across the entire surface of my body.

Calvin is folding up the sofa bed, his hair standing up as if he’s been electrocuted by my couch. His pajama bottoms hang low on his hips . . . very low. I get an eyeful of navel hair before my eyes dart away.

I’m impressed with how accurately my dream hands predicted how he’d look naked.

I affix my attention to the tip of his nose. “Morning.”

He reaches up, wipes his nose self-consciously. “Mornin’, Holland.”

“You sleep okay?”

He nods. “Like a rock.”

I struggle not to look when he reaches down, absently scratching his stomach.

“You going in to work today?” he asks.

“Ah.” I’m overheated. “No. We’ll need to talk to Robert at some point, but I took the rest of the week off to, um . . .”

I have to turn away to reach for the coffee filters. His body is insane. His body hair is the best balance of there-but-not-furry.