It leaves.

I’ve had more intimate eye contact with that bird than I have with my husband.

Smoothing the sheets around me, I sigh. Morning sex with Declan is the best. The best. Long before the busy brain kicks in with checklists and notes and hyper-prioritization and optimization, the versions of ourselves we encounter in that first reach-over run on pure instinct. Still deep in our bodies, we are arms and legs, abs and thighs, tongues and kisses, moving against each other without words, until a hoarse cry of ecstasy reminds us we can speak.

Beg.

Direct.

I whimper, the sound lost to the wind, the bird on a tree branch now, which shimmers, palm fronds weaving like drunken soccer fans after a World Cup final. Sweet morning sex is lost already. It’s not the same if one of us comes back to bed.

We only have six more mornings like this.

Tomorrow, I’ll tie him to the bed so he can’t leave.

Or, you know, maybe he’ll tie me up.

It could go either way.

I’m flexible.

Surprisingly flexible.

The door opens and in walks Declan, wearing a soaked t-shirt, a sweaty semi-circle ringing his neck. His lightweight soccer shorts barely cover the rippling muscles of his legs as he jumps on the bed, kicking his shoes off by the heels, giving me a hot, wet, sweat-soaked kiss that doesn’t quite make up for his absence, but it comes close.

And so do I.

Pulling him to me, I spread my legs so his thigh is between them, my hips grinding into him, the pressure against my core exactly what I need as his mouth slants against mine, tunneling through layers of existential knowing that can only be unlocked through touch.

There you are, I think.

And here I am.

Tap tap tap.

“What. The. Hell?” Declan murmurs, mouth still against mine. I have both hands under his sweat-soaked shirt, the hard lines of his muscled back coiled with exertion.

“Ignore them.”

“They’re like cockroaches!”

I flinch, looking at the floor, curling my feet up against my ass involuntarily. “They don’t have those here, do they?” Dad and Mom took us to Florida once when I was a kid. The “palmetto bugs” were just enormous versions of cockroaches.

“Not really. The only major invasive pests we have to worry about are fire ants, according to some of the resort reports I’ve read. And they spray regularly for those, so.” He frowns. “But this whole ‘going the extra mile’ in service is killing me.”

“Tell them to stop.”

“I have. I ordered them to stop. They don’t believe me. They’re convinced because you’re here, that we’re engaged in some covert mystery shopping thing.”

“Me?”

“Miyadori doesn’t seem to get that I mean it when I want them to back off.”

Knock knock knock.

“Mr. and Mrs. McCormick? I am here with your chocolate and lobster buffet.”

I whimper again.

For a different reason.

“A portable chocolate and lobster buffet? Just for us? What are we—on a cruise ship?”

“S.S. Shannon, prepare to be boarded,” I joke.

He shoots me a vicious look. “The only thing boarding you is food and massage therapists.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We haven’t had sex since we got here!”

“And that’s my fault?”

“You fell asleep last night.”

“You could have woken me up with morning sex!”

“I couldn’t. The yoga instructor got here first. My head was under the covers, about to assume a porny position, when our personal asana tutor appeared.”

“What?” I hiss. “Is that why you’re so sweaty?”

“No. I got rid of her and went for a run.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I can’t keep the whine out of my voice.

His eyes go shifty. Declan doesn’t do shifty.

“You worked!”

“Did not.”

“You had a meeting!”

“Did...okay, yes. Over coffee. More like a coffee gathering. I wouldn’t call it a meeting...”

Knock knock knock.

I jump up, grab a robe, and throw it on. Flinging open the door, I point to the kitchen area.

Frank the staffer smiles at me. “Aloha, Mrs. McCormick!”

“There better be some damn fine chocolate in there.”

His eyes go round.

“Let me get the burners started for the fondue.”

I soften. “Fondue?”

“And the homemade sea salt caramel marshmallows for the Mayan hot chocolate.”

I give Declan a helpless look. His hands are planted on his hips, churning out testosterone at a healthy clip. Tongue rolling in his cheek, he looks like he has a wad of chew in there.

“Okay,” I say slowly, frowning.

“This is what the cheery yoga instructor was like,” Declan says through gritted teeth. “They’re all so damn nice.”

“How dare they!”

“It’s obscene.”

Frank takes a series of decorated chocolates and stacks them, like Zen rocks, until there’s a perfect balance of color and rich cocoa that looks like a game of Jenga.

Then he pulls out a camera.

“Excuse me?” Declan coughs. “What’s this?”

“Oh! We’re recording your personal culinary experience. At the end of your stay with us, the photos will be available in your personal cloud storage, and a print book of highlights—carefully curated by the resort’s Director of Photographic Authenticity—will be shipped to you, signed by each member of the staff and any transient guests with whom you shared a deep moment.”

“The only deep moment I want involves your body,” Declan mutters to me. He said that a tad too loud.

“Um, sir?” The look Frank gives him says he’s really not okay with sharing his body with Declan, but if the job requires it...

“Nothing. Just talking to my bride.”

“What’s the fondue for? The marshmallows?”

“And the lobster.”

“You dip lobster in chocolate?” Declan and I say in unison, my voice carrying a tone of marvel, his revulsion.

“New trend. Our lead chef invented it.”

“The Premenstrual Kitchen, coming soon, from Anthony Bourdain,” Declan whispers.