Instead, I run my hand up the outside of her bare calf again. Stopping behind her knee, I stroke with my thumb before I reverse the movement, kneading all the way to her ankle. Sunny’s a big fan of the leg massage, and I’m damn good at it. On the way back up, I follow her shin bone with my thumbs. All her muscles are tight. Sitting back on my heels, I get a glimpse of pale blue cotton through the small gap between her shorts and her inner thigh.

Panties are panties: frilly, frilless, plain, fancy, lacy, cotton, satin. By the time I usually get to look at them, they’re about to come off. But for some reason, I want to know what style Sunny’s wearing. Will they be regular bikini briefs? Boy shorts? Cheekies? I want her to parade around in them, and then I want to get her naked and keep her that way for hours. But first I need to get her excited enough to want that. And I need to make her forget how frequently I mess shit up.

I continue rubbing up and down the back of her calf until she starts to sigh and shift. Her head drops against the back of the chair, and her eyes flutter shut. Her toes curl against my forearm, and her lips part, which tells me she likes what I’m doing.

“You’re real tight. That feel good?” I go up higher, avoiding the ticklish spot on her knee, getting at her IT band and keeping my palms to the outside of her thighs.

“I taught three classes and then ran five miles with this new greyhound we got at the shelter.”

“You must be tired.”

She cracks one lid. “Probably not as tired as you. You’re the one who got on a plane and then drove here.”

“I’m the one who caused you all kinds of stress today.” I might as well acknowledge it.

“I’m over it.”

“You sure about that?”

She traces one of the ugly flowers on the arm of the chair. “I’m mostly over it.”

“Anything I can do to help you get totally over it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t wanna tell me?”

I spread my fingers wide, covering the tops of her thighs. When I’m a few inches from the hem of her shorts, I graze her inner thighs with my thumbs. It’s a sensitive spot, holding the promise of something way more fun, like wet fingers and Sunny’s little moans of excitement.

I’ve had my hand down Sunny’s pants a total of four times. It’s a fucking world record for me. Usually by this time I’d have bagged a bunny in every conceivable position.

The first time I ventured south of the border with Sunny I was nervous. Not because I didn’t think I could get her off—I’m almost as good at giving orgasms as I am at hockey—but I wasn’t sure what I was going to find. I’m not being a dick. It’s just the truth.

Sunny’s granola. She takes less time to get ready than I do. She doesn’t wear makeup, and I don’t think she has any idea what to do with hairspray, which is insane considering her mom must go through a can a day with the eighties hair band look she’s rockin’.

Anyway, my concerns had more to do with the potential for the “authentic granola experience,” as Vi so kindly dubbed it. She told me I was too accustomed to the bunnies. Those girls might wear too much makeup, but they’re always groomed. And by groomed I mean the only body hair they have is on their heads.

The first time I stuck my hand down Sunny’s pants, I was sure it was going to be the beginning of the end. Right where there’s usually smooth skin was a patch of soft fuzz. It was only two fingers wide, and it wasn’t like an overgrown bush or anything. I really like her, so I kept going, figuring I’d take one for the fuzz team if I had to. I could convince her to get rid of it eventually. I’d use promises of orgasm by mouth as leverage.

Turns out I had nothing to worry about. Once I passed the mountain and dove into the valley, I got nothing but smooth, soft skin and wet, warm pussy. It was a landing strip—pointing me in the right direction.

I’m not gonna lie, it was a goddamn relief. I got her off twice with my fingers. Then she held my dick. It was like high school, but way better. Sunny has great hands and super strong forearms.

Three months in now, and I still haven’t put the puck in the net. I haven’t even put my face in the net. Not for lack of trying, but opportunity hasn’t been on my side. More than once, Vi’s suggested that maybe I’m only into Sunny because she won’t give it up, and I like the challenge. In the past five years, I’ve never had anyone do anything but drop their panties and spread their legs—until Sunny.

It’s nice. So maybe part of it is the challenge. But when I see her, I’m pretty sure the tingly feeling in my dick matches that weird feeling in my chest.

That I’m willing to fly all the way out to see her, knowing there’s going to be a situation I need to handle, has to mean something, too.

I run my hands down to her knees and begin the slow ascent again. Sunny bites her lip and slouches in the chair, as if she’s trying to get closer, or get my hands to go higher. I’m not making a move, yet. I’ve held out this long; I’m sure I can manage a while longer.

I lean down and kiss the inside of her knee. “I’m sorry I made today difficult.”

“I know.”

Tension makes her thighs clench. I’m between them, so they tighten against my ribs. I keep my hands where they are, thumbs rubbing circles close to her femoral artery. Her skin is flushed, warm; her pulse is racing. She’s exactly how I want her to be, turned on and distracted. Backing off, I rest my hands on her knees and bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling when she frowns.