F*ck Marriage(41)

“The last time I was cuddled like this it was by my parents’ bulldog,” I say.

Satcher laughs into my hair, tightening his grip around my waist. “What’s his name?”

“Gerard.”

“Lucky Gerard,” he says.





Chapter Twenty





When I wake up, I’m sore. I bury my face in one of Satcher’s pillows. How long has it been since I’ve done that, and with such enthusiasm? I can’t imagine Keith Gus touching me the way Satcher did. He was more of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of guy. On more than one occasion I had to walk him through getting me off. And Woods, well, he always made sure to take care of me before we had sex, that way he could focus on himself the remainder of the time.

Satcher has a latte waiting for me on the kitchen counter when I wander out of the bedroom. I peer into the mug blinking in surprise; it’s the perfect milk to espresso ratio. The espresso machine is humming as he makes one for himself, flicking switches and using the frother like a professional barista.

“Are you good at everything?”

He looks up from what he’s doing. There’s stubble on his jaw. I get a flash of him with his eyes half closed as he pounded into me, and my stomach does an unwelcome flip.

“You tell me,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

I hide my blush behind the rim of my own mug.

“Your phone’s ringing.”

I glance over to the counter where my phone is flashing. Woods.

“It’s Woods,” I announce like he can’t already see that for himself.

“Why’s that bastard calling my girlfriend?” Satcher leans back against the counter holding his tiny cup of espresso.

I laugh as my eyes rove over his body shamelessly. It takes a lot of work to look like that. How many hours does he spend in the gym?

“Why aren’t you picking up?” He rinses the cup, lays it on the drying rack.

“Because he needs to learn his place.” I smirk. “I’m with you now.”

He shakes his head, amused. “Girl games.”

That’s fair. Women like to throw random tests out there just to see what will happen. I don’t tell Satcher that the real reason I didn’t pick up is because I don’t want the intrusion. I like the way it feels to be here with him, just the two of us. Last night wasn’t fucking. I’ve fucked enough men to know the difference. Maybe he fucks every girl like that. Maybe that’s why women’s eyes grow large when he walks into a room.

“You up for a run and some breakfast?” He sets my empty mug in the sink.

“Sure,” I say. “I’d just have to stop at home for my tennis shoes.”

He nods and goes to get changed. I walk around while he’s in the bedroom, studying his furniture, the artwork on the walls, and the tiny pieces of him that are strewn around. He’s tidy but not too tidy. I like the balance. There are books everywhere and I wonder how he finds time to read.

“You judging my book collection?” He comes up behind me and leans down to lightly kiss me on the back of my neck.

“Trashy thrillers,” I say, shaking my head. “How do you find the time?”

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “But if I read a few chapters before bed…”

“Your mind never shuts down,” I say.

“No, it doesn’t. Except last night. I slept well.”

I grin. I don’t tell him that I had the best night’s sleep of the last few years. No nightmares, no tossing and turning, no lying awake and staring at the ceiling with the dread of tomorrow heavy in my chest. Curled against his hard, warm body, I’d felt safe. It was like sleeping underneath a tin roof while it rained outside, a fire burning in the hearth. I turn around and his arms automatically circle me. Satcher’s body feels different than Woods’. He’s taller for one thing, harder. His hands move like a masseuse’s; every time he touches me he does so with just the right pressure of fingertips and palms, that I feel drowsy. He leans down to kiss me and we end up making love one more time.



We go for our run, and on the way back, Satcher takes me to a little cafe for breakfast. We sit outside, the heat already pounding down on our heads, and order omelets. Satcher orders every vegetable imaginable in his, and when I make a face he teases me about the pound of cheddar I added to mine. We fall into a comfortable silence watching the city folk navigate the sidewalk. There’s an ache between my legs that ever reminds me of the things he did to me.

It’s sweet, the casual way we eat breakfast, the walk back to his place, during which he grabs my hand. Woods tries to call a few more times and I send him to voicemail, though he never leaves a message. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters today. For the first time in a very long time I remember what it’s like to feel simple things and enjoy them immensely.



We stay at Satcher’s place a lot. It’s closer to the office. I like the way it always smells like cigars and coffee. When I ask him about the cigar smell he takes me to a drawer in the kitchen. It’s one of those big drawers, twice as wide as a regular one. Inside is his own personal cigar shop. Hundreds of them—lined up and labeled.

“When do you smoke them?” I ask, rubbing my fingers over the labels.

“On cigar night,” he answers.