She sits back when I finally straighten, looking up at me with a happy little smile. I drag my fingers over her lips but the only things I can think to say right now are too heavy for us, for what I’ve asked her to be for me. “Come here, baby,” I say instead.

I help her up and taste myself when I kiss her. I trail my hand down her curves, nuzzling her jaw and neck. She opens her legs for me when I finally get to where she is hot and wet. With one slow swipe of my finger along her lace, I say, “The tour isn’t over yet.”

Sophie steps back to assess my level of sincerity.

I shrug. “I want to see your room.”

She stomps her foot and turns on her heel. “Fine.” And walks into the next room at the end of the hall.

Finally, this is the room that seems the most Sophie-like. The walls are a light green. Gauzy white curtains cover the windows and a soft golden light from a tall lamp, next to a plush armchair covered in athletic gear, turns the space hazy and warm.

“Who decorated for you?” I ask, pushing aside one of the curtains to catch a glimpse of her view, which is of the redbrick exterior of the building next to hers.

“Amy,” she says dryly. “Is that really what you care about right now?”

I turn around and a part of my brain explodes. That’s the only explanation for the way every word I’ve ever known disappears from my vocabulary. If I had to right now I could maybe make sounds. I can’t move, either. I’m rooted to this spot. I could stand here forever, in fact, if I had to. As long as I can have this view.

“Because the last thing I want to talk about is the decor in my apartment.” Sophie lies reclined on her bed. Her bra has been discarded on the floor and her hair over her shoulder brushes the tips of her nipples. Her hand rests on her belly, three fingers tucked underneath her lace underwear.

In college I took an art history class with my brother because he insisted I needed more culture in my life. It was mostly a class about old white men who drank too much and thought too highly of themselves and their paintings. I hated it and barely managed a B. But god did those men paint some beautiful women. Sophie is a real-life Venus, nipples pink and skin soft. But far more erotic than anything that ever hung on the walls of the Grand Salon.

Slowly, her whole hand stretches the black lace, her head falls back on her neck, her hair pooling behind her. She gasps.

“What are you doing?” I ask. My voice feels fragile in my throat. I look from her to the mirror on her wall where she gasps again, her hand moving. It feels like I can’t look directly at her. Like my vision will fractal. “What are you doing?” I beg.