What now?

He walks back to bed, flops on his back, and pulls me over him. Seeking closer, I twine my legs around his hips and wrap my arms around his shoulders as we start kissing, and after I mount him, and ride him, letting him take me to places only he’s ever taken me to, I end up more exhausted than ever.

When we’re done and I fall onto my back, we’re both panting. I tentatively reach out and place my hand on top of his, staring at the ceiling in the way he is—kind of waiting to see what his reaction is.

I didn’t know that I was holding my breath until he turns his hand and grabs mine in his grip, and holds it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

After our Saturday sex Olympics, we sleep almost all day Sunday.

We wake up slowly, lazily fucking. Then he tosses me one of his shirts as we head to his kitchen. Later he’s in his living room as he works a little bit and I finish my coffee.

“I really should get home,” I keep saying.

“It’s raining out. Just stay here,” he keeps saying back.

And by the time he seems to realize I am going to go change to leave, he stops working, scoops me up, and takes me to his bed, and then the only things raining are hot, smoldering Malcolm Saint kisses all over me.

ALL THE COLORS IN THE WORLD

On Monday morning, I feel as if someone just turned on the light switch. Colors are bright and clear, my awareness of my body is exquisite. I wake up and Malcolm’s chest is beneath my ear, his heart beating solid and slow, our bodies tangled along with the sheets.

When the alarm of his phone buzzes, he stretches slightly, exhales, then gets up to shower. I stay in bed, deliciously dead. I text the girls, I feel so delicious today OMG! And sore to my bones. I never want to leave this bed

I’m excited to scream with my friends but that’s almost the extent of what I plan to tell them—what I wrote on the text.

Is it strange that when you grow close to a man, you start keeping details from your closest friends? Friends who used to know everything about you? I’d never held things from my friends until I met Malcolm. Now there are things that seem to be private. Worthy of just me and him.

I text my mother, Momma, how are you feeling today?! So much to talk about when I see you! Love you!

Then I send an email to myself reminding me to work on my column when I get home.

I roll over and my sexy places hurt.

He rode me to the crests last night over and over.

It’s like the world contains only two people, him and me.

I ease up from the bed, force my sore body into walking mode, and follow him into the huge bathroom. Quietly I brush my teeth with my finger using a little bit of his toothpaste and then I wash my hands, dry them, and run my fingers through my hair.

In the mirror, I see the frosted glass of his shower and I can make out the dark shadow of his tall, muscular figure inside. Then there’s the pattering noise of water slapping his hard skin. After all the sex we had I shouldn’t be instantly hot and aching but I am.

My phone pings outside, and I run out to check it. Interview, it warns. I check the time and notice I only have fifty minutes. Feeling too embarrassed to just leap into the shower with him, I go ahead and dress and then wait for him in the kitchen.

I prop myself up on the massive granite kitchen bar and sip my coffee, light streaming from the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s sunny today, windy of course because the flags and trees are swaying from what I can see, and from here it almost feels possible to hold the entire city if you spread your arms wide enough.

Between that view, and the view of the storm coming out of his bedroom in black slacks and open shirt, his hair wet as he talks on the phone and stares out the window, I feel a sigh work its way up my throat. I think of Gina and suddenly wish she didn’t think donuts were the thing to sigh over; this is so much better. Maybe she should give Tahoe a chance?

Rachel! You’re turning into the girl who wants all girls to see hearts and stars just because you are? That’s Wynn! And Tahoe and Gina? Really? The last thing she needs is another broken heart.

Scowling at that, I scan the online news, stopping when I see some comments about Chicago’s Darth Vader, aka Noel Saint, on the usual sites I visit.

NOEL SAINT’S LINTON CORP. TO ACQUIRE LOCAL MAGAZINE THAT EXPOSED SON’S SECRET ROMANCE ONLY LAST MONTH

I feel sick to my stomach.

Malcolm’s just hung up and is having his own coffee, the Tribune spread before him while he’s scanning his phone with the other hand. I slide off the bar. “Saint, I have to go. I can’t be late today. I have an interview.”