After we eat, we tackle the disaster in the kitchen. There’s even batter on the cabinets and a dusting of pancake powder on the floor. But the cleanup goes fast with the two of us.
Dice hangs up the towel on the oven door and nods toward the living room. “You ready?”
“No, I need the food to settle first. Sex and a full stomach don’t mix.”
“I meant reintroducing you to the turntables,” he says wryly. “Idothink about other things besides sex.”
“You do?”
“On occasion.” He smacks my ass with just enough oomph to make it sting.
In the living room, he flips through his records, fingers moving reverently through his collection.
“Remember this?” he asks, pulling out a well cared for but worn sleeve.
“The SOS Band,” I say, traveling back to the mid-eighties R&B we used to sing and dance to. “Pure gold.”
He nods, smiling. He pairs “Take Your Time”with “Outstanding”by the Gap Band, placing both onto the turntables, then motions me in front of the decks.
My hands hover, hesitant over the controls.
Dice moves behind me. Close. His body radiates heat, his chest brushing against my back.
“Relax,” he says, low and encouraging. “You know how to do this. It’s muscle memory.”
His hands reach around mine, fingertips to fingertips, guiding. He reminds me how to cue the track. Time the beat. Match the tempo.
“Right here,” he murmurs, breath grazing my neck. “Let it spin.”
The record glides beneath our hands for a moment before we release it. The bass thumps, heavy through the speakers. Through the floor. Through us.
“You still got it,” he whispers.
My breath catches in my throat. I’m trying to keep emotional distance, but all the memories we share slip under my skin and the present presses in just as close.
Chapter Eighteen
Dice
Put that on a T-shirt.
I’ve never seen anyone sleep this soundly. Not that I’ve had any other overnight experiences. Only Lot. She’s lying on her stomach, arms bent, both hands tucked under her cheek. A pillow half covers her red silk bonnet and face. She doesn’t stir as the mattress shifts with my weight.
The sheet is pulled up to her waist. The blanket got kicked off the bed during an energetic night. Lot likes to fuck hard. So do I. When you go hard, can’t nothing soft get in the way.
Except that wasn’t entirely true. Not when it comes to her.
I kiss Lot’s shoulder and she doesn’t budge. I climb out of bed naked, cupping my dick when I catch sight of Queenie perched on the closet door like a gargoyle.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Hissss.”
“This is my damn house.”
Her expression says otherwise as she leaps down and curls up beside Lot. Two unexpected women in my life. Neither of them easy.
I pull on shorts, socks, and runners, use the bathroom, and grab an energy drink from the fridge. While I’m in the kitchen, I refill Queenie’s bowls with water and food. Last night, when Lot showed me how to make pancakes, and I gave her a refresher on spinning vinyl, it felt like old times. Five years hadn’t changed that natural rhythm between us.
