Page 76 of Sweet Escape

“Good, because I’m not sure anything could make me stop right now.”

Memphis grips the back of my neck and he pulls my face closer to his. “Me neither.” Then his mouth collides with mine.

I begin to move, up and down, melting into that delicious, amazing bliss. He hits that spot inside me, forcing me to continue moving even though my muscles are already beginning to tire. He grabs my ass under the water, and then he begins to thrust as well, each of us doing our part to slam our bodies together.

It’s amazing, and the water in the tub sloshes around us, splashing up and over the edge of the porcelain in a way that I’m sure I’ll regret later when I have to clean it up.

But for now, it’s everything.

It’s a visual representation of the way I feel inside right now.

Of the turmoil in my soul as he continues to fuck into me.

God, I’ve never felt like this.

Never known a pleasure like this.

Haven’t ever felt so whole and so broken at the same time.

Something about the way he watches me tells me that things aren’t as simple as they were that first time.

Or even the second.

Somewhere along the way, between the playful barbs and the sassy comebacks and the intimacy of the best sex of my life, this thing with Memphis became ... more.

And as we tumble into ecstasy together, staring into each other’s eyes, I can’t help but wonder what comes next.

After we finish in the tub and catch our breath, I stand to get out. But Memphis grabs my hand and pulls me back down, turning my body so I’m tucked into his chest, snuggled against him between his legs.

We talk about my singing career, about how I got started and what I did while I was trying to find a manager and a label. I tell him about moving out of my parents’ house in Brentwood Park when I was nineteen and getting a condo in Santa Monica. About the various waitressing and nightclub jobs that stretched over nearly a decade as I did open mic nights and took any singing gig I could.

I tell him about Todd and Humble Roads and the music I’m working on.

And I’ve never felt so heard.

The way Memphis asks questions, how he manages to zero in on the small things that matter about what I have to say.

I don’t want to do him the disservice of comparing him to Theo, because literallyanyonelistens better than my ex.

But just this conversation, right here, this casual nothing-burger conversation about the shitty jobs I took before I finally made it ... It’s proof that men like Memphis are in a completely different league than men like Theo.

Men like Theo are interested in listening to themselves talk. They focus on their own interests and expect everyone around them to cater to that. It was a constant point of frustration between us, and one of the most frequent reasons we fought. Because he never fucking listened to anything I had to say. I never understood why he could remember so much about so much, yet so little about the things that mattered to me.

It’s because he literally didn’t care about those things, so he didn’t want to hear about it.

But men like Memphis . . .

There is nothing sexier than a man who listens when you have something to say. Who asks questions that show he’s paying attention.

Even back when we were just lobbing semifrustrated, semiflirtatious comments back and forth at each other at the restaurant or TheStandard or anywhere else, it was still so apparent that he was listening to me. His callback is incredible.

I’ve never truly realized how much I love being the focus of his attention.

So when he asks me to come to the vineyard as he’s tugging his pants back on, it’s an easy yes. I might be leaving on Sunday, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the time I have left.

“Come to the vineyard tomorrow,” he says. “It’s harvest, so things are really busy, but that means there’s a lot for you to do. You can ride the ATV around and see the whole property—maybe even tag along with the staff and cut bunches.”

I tug an oversize sleep shirt on, then take a seat on the bed, something occurring to me.

---