I’m pretending, of course . . . I’m an actress swept up in a role. It doesn’t have to be real, it can’t be. But tonight I’m losing myself in the fantasy. That’s my decision, my choice.

He pulls the belt away from me and I wrap my legs around his waist again as he lifts me off the counter. Still buried deep inside, he pushes me up against a wall, holding on to my thighs, keeping my hips against his as he starts to thrust again. His face is right against mine; we’re so close that he’s a bit of a blur as I cling to him, feel him, every inch of him. I lower my legs so they’re now wrapped around his and squeeze with my thighs, making myself tighter, feeling the friction of his movement.

That’s all it takes. The orgasm rolls through me and I cling to him as he pulls me down onto him with increasing force.

Again he lifts me up, this time breaking our connection as I protest. He sits down on a kitchen chair, pulling me onto his lap. I immediately straddle him, pressing him inside again. My breasts are pressed against his chest, my mouth on his. Using my legs I push myself up and down, savoring our connection and the tension. I feel his every breath, smell the hints of his cologne as I increase my pace. I can see what I’m doing to him, feel what he’s doing for me. I’m holding on to him so tightly you would think I was drowning.

Maybe I am in a way.

I increase my speed again, and that’s when Lander reaches between us and toys with my clit.

Which sends me over the edge. I cry out, my face pressed against his as he comes inside me at the same time.

For a moment we just stay there, pressed against each other, our foreheads touching as we both try to catch our breath.

“Lander,” I whisper.

“Yes?”

“Is this the way you’re greeting all your dates these days?”

“No, Bell, just you.”

Just me.

I wish that didn’t sound so wonderful.

Twenty minutes later we’re both dressed and the skillet’s on the stove. Lander’s putting on his coat because I forgot to bring the onions. I’ve also convinced him that some Coronas and limes would be a nice addition. I talk him out of calling his driver for this even though it’s about a ten-minute walk to the grocer. Everybody deserves a night off.

He kisses me on the cheek before he leaves. “I like this,” he says quietly.

“What? Kissing?”

“You’re cooking, I’m getting groceries. It feels . . . nice.”

I laugh. It’s so domestic. So sappy sweet.

It makes me smile.

I watch him leave, almost wishing I hadn’t purposely left the onions at home.