Page 91 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“She’s going to put this on you now,” I say, unwrapping it with a crinkle.

He grabs my hair, rasps right into my head. “And he is going to fuck her so hard.”

“So hard,” I say. “She wants it so bad.” I roll the condom onto him. “She wants him inside her so bad.”

“He will so oblige, so much.”

I let out small incoherent whimpers as he enters me. It feels like the first time, us together, rolling around.

I come in a white-hot storm of bliss, followed by him gripping my ass, crying out, artlessly ecstatic.

Twenty-One

Benny

She’s makingbreakfast in the kitchen the next morning, wearing my shirt, hair up in a high ponytail. I have this strange sense of déjà vu; not the kind of déjà vu where something once happened and now it’s being conjured back in some way. This is déjà vu from years of fiercely imagining a scene like this.

But it’s not me alone here with my secrets, trying to keep them walled off, trying to keep my pain walled off.

I let her in, and it makes everything feel new.

It’s not about great sex or Francine’s fun sense of humor or how generous and fascinating she is, or even the easy fit of us. It’s the feeling that I’m home.

Now that she’s here, I’m home.

“Are you trying to figure out if I’m basking in the afterglow?” she asks. “Magic Eight ball says yes!” She turns back to her eggs, ponytail swinging. She’s never looked more beautiful.

I go to her and slide my hands around her waist and nuzzle the back of her neck. “Come back to bed.”

She shakes me off, laughing. “I have to get to the studio. If I don’t eat now, I’ll collapse! Is that what you want?”

“Will it get you back in bed?”

“Screw off!” She shoves me away and grabs toast from the toaster. She puts more slices down and heads back to the pan with her spatula.

“Do you always eat half a carton of eggs for breakfast?” I ask.

“We burned off a lot of calories last night.” She turns and gives me a quick kiss. “Tempting as your offer is, me collapsing and being brought to bed by you and all.” She’s buttering while tending to the pan.

I grab a cup of coffee. “I bought that kitchen table imagining us at it,” I say. “It only sounds ninety-two percent psycho.”

“I’d say eighty-seven percent,” she says.

“Oh, thank you,” I say.

My thoughts go to James. I wish he could have met her. He’d like her—a lot. And she’d like him. James knew about the whole Vegas marriage. He’d seen inside the ballet studio room before I’d blocked it off with boxes. He teased me about my invisible wife, and I teased him about playing hacky sack. We trusted each other. We protected each other’s weirdness.

It’s one of the things that I have with Francine. We’re inside looking out. Together.

She grabs a sip of coffee. There’s a faraway look in her eyes.

“Is something on your mind?”

“I have an important mission. Probably. But right now it’s eggs,” she says. “I didn’t even ask if you want any.”

“I never eat this early,” I say. “I’m sharper if I wait.”

“Maybe you’re sharper because it’s your hunger instincts kicking in. Your body is giving all your fuel to your brain, desperately hoping you’ll help it find food, but instead you’re putting your energy toward that robot takeover. Psych!”

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