“Yes,” she urges, and I move my hands to her shoulders, holding her in place.

“So. Hard,” I groan as I thrust. My body burns white-hot, and an orgasm barrels through me, torching me with pure, carnal pleasure as I come inside her with a loud, “Fucking love it.”

“Me, too. Oh God, me too.”

I collapse on her, my chest on her back, crushing her. She murmurs softly, a sweet hum that tells me she likes my body on hers, so I stay. I kiss her cheek then brush a soft caress on her lips. “I’ve wanted to do that again ever since I woke up in Las Vegas with you.”

She sounds surprised when she says, “You have?”

I nod against her. “So much. It’s ridiculous how much.”

“Same here. Every time you’re near me, I want to touch you, kiss you, feel you again.”

I smile against my better judgment. “I swear it’s even better sober than drunk.”

“It’s intoxicating in a whole new way,” she says.

“Couldn’t agree more.” I dust a kiss on her cheek then sigh happily. Because I am happy. I’m hopped up on endorphins right now. I run my nose through her hair. Inhaling her. I can’t get enough. “How was your day?”

“It was good. It’s much better now, though.”

“Everything good at the office?” I ask playfully.

“Everything is great at the office, especially after hours.”

I rap my knuckles against her desk. “This is a most excellent desk. Be sure to tell your boss he did a fantastic job picking it out.”

She jabs her elbow back into my chest. “I picked it out.”

“Hmm. Well, then,” I say, dropping another kiss to her forehead. “You have excellent taste in office furniture.”

But after the bedroom talk ends and we clean up, I’m not sure where we go from here. The matter is solved for me when Natalie says in her most business-like voice, “Want to go over how to get an uncontested divorce in New York?”

And man, nothing sobers you up faster than that.

23

A siren blares.

As the red fire truck barrels up Central Park West on Saturday morning, the tan Chihuahua I’m walking along the inside path points his snout in the air.

I lift a hand to my forehead like a batter waiting to see if the ball soars out of the ballpark. “And it’s heading for the bleachers! Almost there!”

The dog’s mouth is closed but his nose is poised, and anticipation winds through me with the possibility that I might win big in the dog bingo game we play. Because when a dog you’re walking erupts in a howl, you get all the points.

I stare at the seven-pounder trotting by my side, waiting, waiting, waiting for the hound to cry out.

Nick is next to me, his hand wrapped around the leather leash of a Jack Russell Terrier, who’s making a temporary home at the Little Friends rescue where we volunteer. He smirks as his dog emits a soft whine. “Maybe you’ll win, or maybe I’ll school you,” he says, just before his dog unleashes the most epic howl I’ve ever heard.

His white and brown beast proceeds to imitate a wild animal for the next thirty seconds, sounding thoroughly adorable until the fire truck’s siren begins to fade in the distance.

“Man,” I say, dejected, as the dogs resume their usual sniff-and-trot pace. “I’m having the worst luck this week.”

First, there was the knee whack, then my dumbass disposal of a delicious sandwich, and on top of that is my zombie of a marriage. I just can’t kill the undead union with ordinary weapons. I’m going to have to go The Walking Dead style and take it down at the brain stem with a full-scale divorce attack.

It’s like a hangover that won’t quit.

But the really bad luck is Natalie’s 180-degree turn after our glorious office sexcapades. No more workplace vixen. Instead, she’s Miss Prim and Proper, zoned in on the most mind-numbing, soul-stealing thing ever . . . paperwork.

“Rough week?” Nick asks, clapping me on the back. “Did you get friend-zoned by a hooker again?”

“Yeah. The one I’m taking to your wedding,” I say, giving it right back at him.

“Ouch.” As we near Little Friends, Nick clears his throat. “Speaking of my nuptials . . .”

“Let me guess. You want me to become an officiant so I can pronounce you man and wife.”

“Wow, no,” he says, shaking his head adamantly. “Like, never ever.”

“Your loss. I’d be good with that,” I say, then my mind races back to Vegas, grabbing at bits and pieces of my wedding with no real luck. It’s still just Elvis, sideburns, and I do.

“I was actually hoping you’d be my best man.”

I stop in my tracks, strangely surprised that Nick asked me. “I thought you’d want Spencer to be your best man.”

My twin brother shrugs. “Yeah, but you’re stuck sharing DNA with me, so there’s that.”

I wipe a nonexistent tear from my eye. “Wow, that was heartfelt. So touching.”

“Seriously, though. I mean it, Wyatt. No joking now. You helped me realize how much Harper meant to me. You gave it to me straight and helped me see that my feelings for her were real. Hell, you’re my brother no matter what. But you also gave me a kick in the ass when I needed one.”

I lift my foot and pretend to whack his butt outside Central Park. “I’m excellent at administering ass-kickings.”