The plan is to put on progressively more casual clothes and end with the pièce de résistance: my very fine naked ass—if Solange is up for it. And if that doesn’t distract her from feeling shitty, nothing will.When I come out, Solange’s expression melts into one of undisguised desire. Her mouth parts a fraction, and her breath hitches.“Nothing to say?” I ask.She shakes her head. “Oh. Right. Chapman’s latest ensemble is irreverent and simple. Men’s casual wear at its finest. The gray sweatpants sit just below his waist and emphasize his enticing happy trail. Correction: That trail is fucking ecstatic.”I swing my hips from side to side in a slow roll. “Notice anything else worth mentioning?”Her gaze lands on my crotch. “The beauty of the fit is that underwear is optional, apparently. Either Chapman is freeballing or he’s carrying a baguette in his pants.”Solange’s comment makes me miss a step.“Yep,” she adds. “He’s definitely freeballing.”I raise one finger in the air. “Hang on. I have one more outfit.”“Chapman.”I turn back. “Yes?”“I do hope you’re going to wear even less for the next round.”“Great minds, Solange,” I say, puckering my lips. “Great minds.”She throws a pillow my way. “Get to it, then.”

As I sit up and arrange my pillow behind me, I begin to moan. “Oh, that’s it, Solange.”She shakes her head. “If we were actually having sex, you’d be much louder than that.”Fair point. I narrow my eyes at her, picturing the way she owned my body just this morning. Channeling the energy I felt when she rocked against me earlier, I try again. “Yes, yes, motherfucking yes.”“That’s better,” she says, her expression smug.“What’s that, baby? I’m too big to fit?”Her eyes go wide, and she grits her teeth. “Too big to fit, my ass,” she grumbles.“Don’t worry, Solange,” I exclaim, panting heavily in between each word. “It’s not. Too big. To fit your ass.”“Ew. You sound like William Shatner.” She punches me in the shoulder. “And anyway, that is not what I meant.”“Oh, sorry,” I say, grinning sheepishly. “I didn’t hear the comma.”

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck,” I say, pounding my hands on the mattress.After a few more expletives, I ask, “Are you trying to insult me?”“No, why would you say that?” she whispers.“We’re supposed to be having sex, and you haven’t made a peep.”“Oh, right.” She rolls onto her knees, grabs the headboard, then starts rattling it as if it were a fence. “Yes, yes, yes! Big Daddy, yes.”“Big Daddy, eh?”“Just go with it, Chapman,” she says, then she screams, “Ooh, right there. Yes. That. Is. Motherfucking. It.”“Damn, I’m better in your fantasies than I am in reality.”“True, true.”

“The limes can wait.”“Wait for what?”It’s a game, of course. I know exactly what he’s going to say: The limes can wait for us to have sex—or something else in that vein. And I couldn’t agree more. But when he finally speaks, Dean says, “For me to make love to you like my next breath depends on it. Because honestly, Solange, I think it does.”“You’re breathing now,” I say, my tone playful even though his statement has kicked my lust into overdrive and turned my insides to jelly.He grinds his dick against my ass. “Just barely, though.”