My heart trips over itself, and when I recover enough to speak, it’s to say, “My turn.” We change positions on the couch so I’m in his lap, riding him, and it’s beginning to feel plausible that I might actually have orgasm number three—so annoying! so good!—when I notice the time—

“Miles—” My voice is a purr I didn’t know I could make. “We have a minute left, so . . .” We change positions again. The time limit inspired us to get creative with a wide variety of them, but now it feels right to take things to the bed.

“You want me to time it just right?” he says, above me, pumping deep.

Can he do that? Because that would be unbelievably hot. The sound I make is a muffled affirmation into his neck.

The seconds pulse down around us as we mentally make our count, together.

I breathe the final seconds into his ear, encouraging him. “Five, four, three, two, one . . .”

“Zoey,” he gasps. His mouth falls open and I arch up to kiss him as he comes, joining me at last. His arms tighten around me, cushioning me from his reckless movements. The sound he makes flatters my ego.

The alarm’s buzzing but we both ignore it. The weight of his body feels good, but soon enough he’s shifting off me to fall on his back beside me. Our bodies cool while twin smiles linger on our faces. Eventually I get up to shut off the alarm.

“Remind me, I’m just curious, how many did you have?” he asks once we’ve tidied up and regrouped on the bed. He ticks off one, two, three on his hand and shoots me a questioning look. I want to flick him on his smug nose. But I feel too relaxed to muster the effort.

“I lost track,” I admit, ducking my face, my cheeks warm.

“I’d be happy to make you a chart. I know how much you love charts,” he says, smiling.

I laugh. What would we call it? Sex Champion?

“Still sober, by the way,” he adds.

“I’m sober, too,” I reply. “Just . . . high on life.” Giddy, if we’re being accurate.

“Same.”

We’re still basking in the afterglow when a weird thought hits me. “What if Mary only told me she was sending pot, but these are just regular brownies?”

He looks appalled. “Would she do that?”

“She would do just about anything, but, probably a good idea to hang out for a while either way. I don’t want to send you anywhere before we know.”

“Yeah? You sure?” he double-checks.

“Make yourself at home. Or should I say, make yourself at ‘Home the’?”

“Out of curiosity, is this”—he vaguely motions with his hands—“a normal day with Mary?”

“She had her ‘meds’ delivered weekly, if that’s what you’re asking.”