A lifetime.
I know he doesn’t mean it like that. He’s talking about a sexual marathon, not about spending forever with me. Hislifetimedoesn’t involve things like first dates and marriage and teaching our son to toss a football in the backyard and dancing with our daughter standing on his feet.
Wow. That escalated quickly.
Still, that doesn’t stop my heart from foolishly expanding at the thought of Nate wanting any kind of lifetime with me.
His mouth lowers and claims mine in a kiss. I feel one of his hands sliding down my body again and a second later, I gasp when his fingers land between my legs.
“I thought…” I’m panting a little. “We weren’t...”Oh my god.“Doing this.”
His fingers move faster. My head falls back.
“I said I wasn’t taking your virginity.” I feel his grin against my mouth. “I never said anything about orgasms.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
If I were president, my first act would be adding an
eighth day to the week, reserved for lying in bed
watching baby animal videos on YouTube.
Phoebe West, defining her political priorities.
A secret smile plays on my lips as I shove clothes into a Diane von Furstenberg duffle bag a few minutes later. I’m still basking in the happy glow of Big O, who finally made her Broadway debut, thanks to Nate. Let’s just say, he earned a standingO-vation for his performance.
I snort at my own terrible pun, staring from a pair of very practical Toms shoes to my favorite, somewhat frivolous Miu Miu booties. I only have room for one of them.
Sigh.
This is torture for me. I’m the girl who starts packing two full weeks in advance of any trip, meticulously planning specific outfits before decidingbetter safe than sorryand stowing the entirety of my wardrobe in a large rolling suitcase.Because, hey, it’s entirely possible you’ll need that full-length, sparkly Moschino gown, Phoebe.Even on a ski trip to Vail, or an extended stay on the beaches of the Virgin Islands.
You simply never know.
After giving me the two best — andonly— back-to-back orgasms of my life, Nate kissed me firmly, stalked into my walk-in closet, threw the smallest suitcase from my luggage set onto the bed, and ordered me to pack while he fed Boo and then took him around the block for a much needed walk. I was so sated and happy, I barely even glared at him when he grunted that I was — and I quote — “not to move a fucking inch outside this house” until he got back.
Bossy, arrogant, sexy son-of-a-bitch.
By the time I finish packing, the duffle bag is bursting at the seams. I have no idea where the plane is headed, so I stick with the basics — a few pairs of jeans, four of my favorite blouses, my Chanel wool coat, and three pairs of heels.
Flats are for sissies.
I’m sitting on the counter sipping a can of cranberry-lime seltzer, admiring the way my sparkly Kate Spade platform pumps catch the light, when Nate walks into the kitchen with Boo cradled in the crook of his arm like a football. The Pom looks happy as can be, nestled against him.
“Good walk?” I ask.
He nods and sets Boo on the floor. When his eyes find mine, they’re ultra warm. Like melted chocolate.
“Did he sniff everything in a three mile radius?” I ask as Nate walks toward me.
“Yes.”
“Did he poop?”
His hands land on either side of my neck. His thumbs push my chin up gently, so my face is angled toward his. “You really want to talk about dog poop right now?”
“Nope,” I breathe.