“Hello?”

It only takes a minute to confirm I’m alone. I tuck the note into my pocket, intending to ask Marchant about it later, and settle on the couch with a copy of The New Yorker.

He walks in the front door. He looks surprised to see me and he doesn’t seem to want to meet my eyes.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and comes to stand a few feet in front of me. “I’m sorry I left you out there. That was a dick move.”

“I walked through the maze a few times. It was really pretty. No big deal.”

“Thanks.” He makes a face that’s kind of an eye roll and rubs a hand over his hair. “Hey, I’ve gotta do some stuff today. You want to talk to Tom before they start with the interior sheetrock?

“Sure.”

He nods once, then leaves the room. I don’t think about the note again until I’m undressing later that afternoon for a shower.

And since I’m thinking of him, I’m not entirely surprised when Marchant slips in after me.

There’s no talking. Just his hands, his mouth, and, when I’m spread out on the warm tile floor with water raining down on me, his cock.

I’m on my third orgasm by the time I’ve acknowledged that I’m wanting something more from him. After our talk inside the maze, I want to be even closer to him.

He’s moving inside me, physically as close as he can get, when he leans down and whispers in my ear: “Why do you do this to me?”

“Why do I do what?” I murmur.

“Why do you make me feel like everything’s okay?”

My heart sends warm fuzz through my whole body. “Because it can be okay.” I kiss his mouth and lift my hips to take him deeper.

MARCHANT

“You held out on me! You cheater!”

I smile smugly at the beautiful woman curled up on the couch beside me. “I’m an English major, Suri. ‘Wheel of Fortune’ is my thing.”

She punches me in the arm—a signature Suri Dalton move. “You acted like you hated it!”

I shrug and grin. “Acted.”

She makes a little hmph sound and folds her arm over her breasts, covering up her pert nipples, which stand out underneath my soft, gray night shirt. “I’m gonna get you back for that! Just wait!”

I laugh and thump her on the nose. “You telling me you’ve got a lot of juicy secrets?”

“Yes,” she says insistently. “I’m full of secrets. I’m Pandora’s freakin’ box!”

“Just so you know, Pandora’s Box was full of curses.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’m still full of interesting secrets. Like did you know I can speak three languages?”

“Counting English?”

She nods.

“Spanish,” I try.

She glares.

“You know pig latin doesn’t count,” I tease.

“It’s not pig latin.”

I purse my lips and look her over, pretending I can see right through her. I nod and put a finger on my chin. “I see…”

“What do you see?”

I grin. “It’s sign language.”

“What!?” She jumps up and hits me with a pillow, then folds her arms again. My gaze sweeps up her tights-clad legs, over the swell of her breasts, and over her lovely face. I grin wider. “Was I right?”

“Yes you were right! But how? That’s a hidden talent of mine. My aunt was born deaf. Everyone in my family knows— Gah! Everyone in my family.” She shakes her head. “I guess someone, sometime has written about my dad’s sister Lucy.”

I nod, feeling irrationally pleased with myself. “Someone, somewhere.”

“And you read it,” she pouts.

“What can I say?” I shrug. “I’m well-read, baby.”

She sits on my lap and frames my face with both of her hands. “How can you be smart? Pimps are supposed to be big, dumb, jocky types.”

“I’m jocky!” I stick out my lower lip, and she giggles. I grab a piece of her hair and twist it around my hand, pulling her a little closer to me. “Besides,” I whisper in her ear, “I already told you, I’m a mack.”

She giggles again. “That’s where the term ‘mack daddy’ comes from, isn’t it? That old fourth grade term the boys used when they wanted to be king of the jungle gym?”

I stroke her cheek. “And here I thought you went to private schools.”

“I did. But they were dirty little boys.”

“You like the dirty boys?” I take her hand and press it against the bulge that’s growing under my plaid pajama pants. She rubs her palm over me—and I’m stretching out on my back, lifting my ass for her as she yanks off my pants. I make quick work of hers and hold her over me while I explore her soft pussy with my tongue.

She’s groaning, her legs collapsing so she sags on top of me, in no time flat.

She’s got her arm stretched back underneath her legs so she can work my cock, but her fingers can’t reach me.

“Hold on,” she says, pulling away from me with a sexy little cry. She climbs on top of my face and takes my cock in her mouth and now it’s me who can barely think straight.

“Jesus…” She’s got this thing she does with her tongue and her lips that’s… “Oh, fuck!”

I’m coming in her mouth, worrying about her until she screams my name and I can feel her quiver underneath my tongue.

I lift her off of me, lie her out on the coffee table, and suck her tits for a few minutes till she’s writhing again. Then I lift her onto the couch, spread her legs, and plunge inside. She’s warm and soft and welcoming. She strokes my face and cries my name, and you know what? I fucking like it. I might even fucking love it.

It’s not until we’re eating ice cream half an hour later that it hits me like a fucking train.

“I didn’t use a condom. Holy fuck.” I’m off the couch and on my feet, pacing. “I didn’t use a fucking condom! FUCK!”

“Marchant, calm down, it’s—”

“You don’t understand. You could get pregnant!” I’m breathing hard. There’s not enough air in this room. In this house. “Suri, I always use a condom. I can’t believe it! Fuck me!” I’m covering my face with my hand, feeling the familiar coldness in my hands and feet that harkens a panic attack, when she grabs me by my elbows and says, “STOP! Stop freaking out, Marchant. I’m infertile.”

“What?”

Her hazel eyes are wide in a face that suddenly looks breakable. “I said I’m infertile,” she says softly. “It’s okay.” Her shoulders slump. “I’ve known it for a while. So I can’t get pregnant. You have nothing to worry about.”

She sits down on the couch, folding her legs underneath her.

In the last few days, we’ve fucked and worked together, and I’ve never seen her look like she does now. So…vacant.

I go over to the couch and sit on the floor in front of her, surprised by the depth of loss I feel on her behalf.

“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say. But her wide eyes are fixed on my face, so I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “Do you want children?”

“I don’t know. I never really got a chance to think about it. Probably, though. I think I’d like to adopt a little girl or boy.”

I nod a little. “Well…that’s something.”

“Something,” she says. “Yeah. I guess it is.” And, after a moment looking into my eyes: “You don’t want kids? Because of…your mother?”

“I don’t want an accidental pregnancy,” I hedge.

“Well, you’re safe with me.” She winks, but the smile she gives me is not real.

I wonder what she would think if she knew the truth about my problem.

I tell myself that I’m a fool for wondering.

SURI

I’ve been invited to dinner with ‘the girls.’ In the past four days, Marchant and I kept bumping into Juniper, the British one, and she eventually asked if I’d like to go to fajita night with the Love Inc. ladies who are still hanging around. (Some of them took time off, because there weren’t enough cottages for everyone to continue seeing clients).

That was yesterday—the day that turned into the night when I told Marchant about my inability to procreate.

I’m probably being crazy, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s been more distant since I told him. Today he was at the cottage most of the day, doing book-keeping stuff, he said, while I began sorting through fabrics and colors to create the new look for the almost completely sheet rocked main house interior. I think I’ve got the floors and paints mostly decided, and I’ve got a tentative plan for furniture and plants.