I can see it in his eyes, but then again—when isn’t he?

“Why wait until you shower?”

“Babe, I’m gross.”

“So?”

He pulls at my hands until I’m standing, and I laugh when he begins tugging at the hem of my old, ratty track t-shirt from high school.

Gently pulls me until we’re in the hall and in the bathroom, leaning to start the water in the shower with its see-through glass walls and white tile.

I tug at his running shorts.

He pushes down my pants.

I lift his tank top.

He grapples with my thong.

Our mouths meet and we kiss as if it’s the first time—every time. I get a shiver up my spine the second his lips touch mine.

Still have dreams about him.

And my heart still races when he says my name, or when I see his name on my phone. Or…or…

“I missed you,” he moans when my hand circles his shaft.

“You’ve only been gone an hour.” And we had sex before he left. “What time is your game today?”

“Noon.”

That’s in an hour.

“Wouldn’t you know it? We have plenty of time.”

The End