Page 43 of Falling

She moans, kisses my cheek, and rolls out of bed.

“Or we could do something about the morning wood,” I call after her.

“You do something about the morning wood,” she snaps.

“That’s not as fun.”

“Neither is the beating my den of iniquity is complaining about.”

Den of iniquity? She has more names for her sex than a dog has fleas. I’ve heard most of them over the years as we bantered back and forth. This is a first for this one though.

“My rod of Asclepius would be happy to look into that for you.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, walking out of the bathroom. “What is this?” She holds open her hand. Resting on her palm is my cock ring. “I mean, I know what it is, but why is my name on it?”

“Because I’ve always belonged to you. I might as well have your name on me.”

“How long have you thought about this?”

“About us? Since we were old enough to fuck.”

“This, Peter. How long have you had this ring? Have you fucked other women with it on? Because that’s a whole other plain of messed up.”

“No. I’ve only had it about a year, which was the last time I was with anyone else.” Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe me. “Do you remember when I came to the office with a shiner? You’d just taken up with that douche from the country club.”

“Cooper?”

“Yes, the guy with the yuppie name. Well, I found some random woman to take home from a bar. Only problem was I slipped and called her your name instead of hers. She cold-cocked me in the face.” I’ve scooted up to rest against the headboard. She glares at me for a minute before bursting into laughter.

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did. That’s when I decided to stop dicking around and wait for you.”

“Was this whole trip a plan to seduce me into bed?” Her eyes glint with laughter. I don’t think I’m actually in trouble. Yet.

“Not necessarily.”

“Peter Winsloe,” she says, batting at my chest. “I don’t think I even know you anymore.”

“Yeah, you do. I’m the same guy. Just with benefits now.” She laughs and leans in to kiss me. I turn her simple peck into something a lot more salacious.

“Nope,” she says, pressing me back against the headboard. “You promised shopping.”

I pout at her.

“But,” she continues, “if you’re very good, I might have a few tricks of my own to show you later.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be singing his praises later too. But, if you don’t get dressed, you’re going to meet him soon. I’m starving.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a salute.

“Remember that for tonight.” She sways into the other room to dress, and I head for the bathroom where I hurry to get dressed. I know one thing for sure: a hungry Geneva is an angry Geneva. She gives new meaning to the term hangry.

When she emerges from the other bedroom, she’s dressed in a sweater dress, tights, and a pair of fuzzy boots I’ve never seen.

“You look beautiful,” I say, standing from the couch.

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