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He pauses. I nod. Roughly, he picks me up and tosses me onto the bed. I have a faint impression of his dark eyes, and then he moves down my body and licks my pussy in one stroke. My spine arches off the mattress.

“You taste like somebody just fucked you, baby,” he rasps.

I laugh, delirious, overwhelmed in the best way. He moves up my body again, and I feel him unzip his pants. The head of his cock brushes the inside of my thigh. Our eyes meet, and I see the question in his, but I shake my head.

“We shouldn’t,” I whisper.

“Fuck.” His fingers fist in the sheet.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, baby, don’t be sorry. You’re right.”

He kisses me briefly, then stretches over me to take a condom off the nightstand. I wait, disappointed but not regretful. A pregnancy is not what either of us need right now. He rolls on the condom, takes me by the thigh to lift my hip, and slides inside. That first stroke is the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt.

We spiral together. He fucks me on my back, on my hands and knees, with my hands on the headboard. My head is empty. My body is getting everything it wants from him. When he comes, he goes down on me until my legs shake. Then, it’s all over, and we’re panting on our backs against the pillows.

My head should be empty, but instead, I keep thinking the same few words.

I don’t want this to end.

This can’t end tomorrow.

It sobers me, even though I assure him I’m fine as we shower off and get to bed. He makes me stay up and finish a bottle of water and take some Tylenol. The way he’s caring for me only makes the ache worse. The last thing I remember is him stroking my hair, his face half lit by the television glow. Then, I’m out.

CHAPTER THIRTY

COEN

It’s mid-afternoon when we hit Nashville. I think she was expecting a quaint little town with country music stars walking the streets. Maybe fifty years ago, that was Nashville, still the epicenter of country. It’s a big, commercialized city now. She doesn’t ask many questions as we get off the freeway and head out to my condo and park. It’s outside the city, sitting up on a hill with the downtown in the distance. It looks far, but it’s only a fifteen minute drive. Traffic dependent, of course. In the last five years, we’ve had a burst of newcomers, and the traffic is pure hell.

I cut the engine. We’re in the pale stone drive, tall hedges and a black panel fence surrounding it.

“So this is the Coen Taylor house?” she says.

“The?”

“Well, isn’t that what they call famous people’s houses?”

I shake my head, getting out and circling to lift her down. She turns her face up when I lean in, and we kiss. It’s casual, like we’re really together. I gather up our bags, and she follows me up the walkway to the side porch. I tap in the code, and the door slides back, letting us in the four season porch.

“Wow. I don’t know what I was expecting, but you have a nice house,” she says.

I step in, hand on her waist, and open the door leading into the kitchen. She pauses, then goes in.

“Wow,” she says again, turning in a slow circle.

The house is pretty simple in comparison to some of my colleagues, but it is beautiful. Everything is plain, with black and bamboo accents. I didn’t do anything but show up to a design meeting and let them know what I didn’t like. I forgot about that until now, how disjointed I felt talking to the crew handling it. They kept asking what I wanted, and I kept shrugging because…what does it matter if I’m never home?

“You like it alright?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She sits at the stool and sets her bag down. “You ever cook in this kitchen?”

I shake my head. “I can cook but don’t have much time.”

She rests her chin on her hand. “You’re not here much, are you?”

I shake my head.