Page 133 of Tips and Trysts

Well, a category five hurricane is a decent metaphor, but the kittens are a lot safer for me to photograph.

Darcy takes a swipe at Lizzie, so she tries to bite him. Then I have to intervene with my foot and a warning glare. “I’ll take you back to the shelter. I mean it. No more fighting.”

Needless to say, if anything ever happened to these cats, I would fall into a nihilistic spiral because they’re my reason for living—them and the woman whose face now covers the hallway between the kitchen and my living room.

I’ve taken so many pictures of Cora over the last six months. Too many, probably—like a stalker-level amount. What I have on display in the hallway is a tiny fraction of my collection and nowhere close to the number of not-safe-for-work photos I’ve hung in our bedroom.

The Logan House has never looked better.

When I enter the living room with vegan nachos, I’m met with cheers from Cora and our four best friends. This is the drunkest election night I’ve ever witnessed, and easily the best one. There’s so much alcohol and an obscene amount of schadenfreude as we watch my father’s final fall—plummet—from grace.

Scratch that.Mostof us are brimming with schadenfreude tonight. The two exceptions are Alyssa and Essie’s father, Porter, who moved back to the States at the end of the summer. He and Alyssa have been talking for the better part of the evening, and I’m sure neither of them was expecting our collective victoryroar when Regina Rutherson, the reigning queen of the network, says, “24N is calling it immediately—former Virginia Governor Warren E. Logan has lost his bid for senator, a loss all but guaranteed by polling data over the last six months.”

In the glow of the television, Cora throws her arms around my neck and kisses me, laughing against my mouth, and I can’t help but laugh right back.

Revenge is a dish best served cold—and vegan.

***

Another two months later – New Year’s Eve

“We have an announcement,” Alyssa says, raising her glass of champagne with her free hand. Her other hand is looped in Porter’s.

On Cora’s other side, Dalton immediately chugs the remainder of his champagne—and Cora’s.

Alyssa beams at Porter, who smiles back at her before he says, “Lys and I agreed: There’s no better way to start a new year than to tell you…”

“…We’re engaged,” Alyssa finishes.

It’s a surprise to nobody—literallynobody. When Alyssa told Dalton a week ago, he sent Lander and me thirty-seven Code Blue texts (which I thought was code for Dalton accidentally committing insider trading, and Lander thought was a request for a threesome). When Porter told Essie, she didn’t talk to anyone for two days. She went off the grid to wherever tiny, high-strung girls go, and returned with her blond hair dyed brown.

But still, Lander and I spring to our feet to hug Alyssa. Lander picks her up first and swings her in a circle, and when he puts her down, I go in for a bear hug. Eventually, Dalton joins us, smelling of Dom Perignon. And minutes later, while Alyssa is hugging Essie, I gleefully whisper into Dalton’s ear, “She’s going to be yoursister.”

***

“Aw, baby boy, what have we learned?” Cora asks while stroking the tip of her thumbnail against my bruised jaw.

I inhale through my nostrils and flinch from the pain. “No more fighting with my friends.”

She worries her lip. “I mean, fight Lander all you want, but I wouldn’t try Dalton again.”

The fucker was right: He would absolutely hunger games the shit out of Lander and me in a parking lot brawl.

“Never,” I agree. “I’ll be good.”

“Lie down,” she murmurs.

I move to my feet, relieving my knees from the hardwood floor after having crawled to where Cora is perched on the edge of our bed. Once I’m on my back, she makes quick work of my clothes and plants a kiss on each of my knees—like she always does when I crawl to her.

And then she climbs on top of me and rides one out of me, undulating in her familiar, mesmerizing way. Within minutes, I’m a mess beneath her—and she’s a mess on top of me while I take her from below. This is how we begin the new year.

Look at how you move that perfect body. Whose slut are you? Mine, of course. A cunt that only tightens for me and my cock. Are you going to earn it, princess? Are you going to earn your fucking tip?

She slides off and puts my cock in her mouth, licking her taste off me while her hands roam, traveling the planes of my tingling skin.

I catch her left hand by the wrist and slip her fingers into my mouth before I caress the length of her arm. My fingertips linger on her scar.

When I slide her fingers out of my mouth, she works my cock deeper in her throat. I contemplate waiting, but she loves this—sucking my pierced cock after she fucks me, making me hard again. Truth be told, she could recite our grocery list, and I would still get hard, but I’ve vowed to always give her what she needs.

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