13

On the morning of their getaway to Agassiz, some town he’d never heard of past Chilliwack, he was ready a full hour before she arrived, shoes on. He sat down at the front window desk and put a line through the remaining items on his list: ‘PHONE CHARGER’, ‘TOILET BAG’, ‘COFFEE POT’. There was something else to do but he couldn’t think what, making him feel he was on a slippery slope. She had booked an Airbnb for two nights, which had sounded wonderful at first, but as the departure grew closer, he didn’t think so. Christ in hell, I’m going to be living with her for three days. What? Am I mad? She’ll see through everything. Could he do it? On the one hand, yes, of course he could, he’d successfully faked situations all his life. But on the other hand, no, it felt too much and he wondered what the hell he was thinking agreeing to a trip away together this early in the relationship. I really like her a lot, maybe too much. I just want it to work, is that so much to ask? I’m lucky, it’s true. I think I am. Try to be interesting and fun. Coffee, charger, socks, underwear, wallet, lube. I’m forgetting something. What is it??

He walked through his place, evaluating things for packing. The office chair, no, cutlery, no, water bottle, yes! His heart skipped at the notion of forgetting to pack one. Pack one for her as well? No, that’s insane. But what if she forgot hers? Wouldn’t that be a stellar moment? A mind-reading, universe-bending moment that would indicate he was perfect for her. Pack two, if she has hers, you don’t have to reveal that you packed one for her. That’s stupid. It’s all stupid. This whole thing is stupid. I’m stupid, she’s stupid, oh fuck, what the fuck are we doing this for anyway? The torture, bloody torture on a stick.

He checked the mirror, his eyes weren’t as puffy as they felt, especially if he smiled, which he reminded himself to do, even if it was fake, it looked better. He opened the back door and scanned the porch. Was there anything they would need? A rake? A terra cotta pot? No! He closed the door, locked it and then came back a second later and checked that he locked it, which he knew he had, then checked it again. Fuck! She would be there any minute and if he forgot something, fuck it, okay? That’s how things rolled sometimes and he would have to wear the shame or shoulder her disappointment. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

His phone went bling in his back pocket just before nine.

Here

Out the front window, she had the hatch open. Hurry! He approached her with his bag and backpack and asked how her morning was, and then asked again twenty seconds later, and, realizing, he followed it quickly with the insane question: “Did you write this morning?”

“Mm, no.”

He scurried back to his entrance and needlessly said, “Right back,” to get the last piece, a small cardboard box of kitchen things, gear, and snacks. He locked the door, checked that it was locked, checked that he had his keys, wallet, glasses, phone, checked the lock again and then used every bit of his will and energy to step away from the door and leave.

He took his place in the passenger seat and forced himself to slowly, as if casually, put on his seatbelt so as to appear relaxed and normal. He slipped his hands under his thighs, betting they were shaking, and set about trying to think of things to say as she pulled onto the road but everything was met with: Don’t say that, are you crazy? He tried to console himself, they didn’t have to be talking all the time, right? Had they not reached a level where they could just be okay with some silence? Yes, but no. Three full fucking days together, oh no. He could feel her need for him to step up and be present, but he was lost in the abyss. Thankfully she asked a question.

“What do you think about Alice Munro’s daughter outing her mother as complicit in her abuse by Alice’s partner?”

What is she asking me? Was this a test? What’s the right answer? Is she fishing for it? What opinion can I have that is correct, intelligent, and empathetic? Force me onto the bloody minefield, thanks for that!

“Well, it’s unfortunate…and awful,” he said. “What do you think?”

“Well, I know you like her work, so I was curious what you thought.”

He took this as a compliment. “It’s terrible. She wrote a lot of good stuff, it doesn’t change that and that’s what’s interesting – does the conduct of an artist cause us to…” He took a moment to formulate. “If someone turns out to be an asshole, does that mean we write off their work and pay no attention to it? There are lots of paintings, poets, and composers who were morally on the wrong side, murderers, racists, misogynists among them, and yet they produced beautiful work, should we burn it all?”

She checked her side mirror, she was an alert driver. “Yeah, well, now that I know that about her and I’m sure other people feel this too – I won’t be reading her books, not because they aren’t good, but I can’t get it out of my head what happened, what she should have done.”

Her response was reasonable, but it irritated him. “I get it,” he said, with an agreeable tone, which left them stranded in the austere abyss of whirring tires against asphalt. He wouldn’t dare risk offending her but wanted to ask: What if they find out the guy who invented concrete was a raging pedophile?

As always, he felt the ball was in his court. Don’t talk about the weather! You already asked about her writing! If you ask how she’s feeling, she’s going to turn around and take you home! Just keep your mouth shut! She seemed bored, even irritated. His heart fluttered like a lame bird, sweat from his palms soaked into his jeans. He caught a whiff of his odour, distressingly gamey. He kept telling himself to relax, but it was like telling someone to calm down while being tortured.

It was supposed to be fun. Might they not pull over and have sex in a field of flowers? That would not only rid him of his anxiety but create some memories. At least she wasn’t complaining, not out loud anyway, he was grateful for that, but of course, that could start anytime, it was a two-hour drive. She turned on the music and it relieved them from having to talk, but it signalled he had failed, and he considered suggesting they go home.

The Airbnb was a log lodge of five or so rooms, cozy, earthy. Hulking logs lined the wall behind the king bed, which dominated the room with its white cover and many fluffy pillows. The floor was wide planks with two wool rugs so intricately detailed, they jangled his nerves. The moulding was perhaps from reclaimed wood, and the other walls were plaster, painted a deep tan colour. Affirmations hung about, carved into wood or hanging in faux distressed frames, the kind of crap that made you want to commit suicide just to prove them wrong.

Nature doesn’t rush, yet everything is accomplished.

–

Taking it easy is hard work, but someone’s gotta do it.

–

Pause today. Your future self will thank you.

There were two soft chairs with flat wooden armrests and square red cushions that flanked a big-screen TV across from the bed. A tiny galley kitchen took up the far corner next to the sliding door leading to the deck, in front of which stood a tiny round table for two. Warm lamps chased dark out of the corners.

After putting things away in the fridge, they flopped onto the bed and kissed and touched, which led to clothes off and screamy sex. Now the place was theirs, and he finally felt a release of tension. They had a short snooze after which he took a quick shower.
When he came out, she had set out the plastic containers of prepared salad, dip, and pita bread, a plate for each. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said with her mouth full. “I had to eat, so hungry.”

“Not at all. He pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt, then dished himself a plate. “Thanks for this.”

The next logical thing was to take a walk, he could almost hear his parents bidding them to do so. They kept to the dirt road on which they had arrived, the Fraser River far to their left across a farm field and Mount Cheam beyond, magnificent but foreboding. The grey sky and chilly breeze made him want to say it was depressing. He took out his camera and put it into selfie mode, pulled her close to him, and they dutifully smiled, half squinting at the pallid day. He reviewed the picture. They looked old and conservative, old white people from the burbs, like their parents. He wanted to delete it immediately, but showed it to her with a smile that meant he thought it was cute and proof of their shared joy.

She wanted to be at the river’s edge early to watch the sunrise over Mount Cheam, welcoming her to a glorious day. That would mean being down there by 6:30 AM, which for him meant being up at 5:30 for coffee so he could function. It went to plan – he got himself organized – and they walked the few minutes it took to get to the river. Suddenly, she exclaimed, “Oh! Look at the spider web!” He joined her, crouched down, angling just right to make it visible in the available light. It was two feet high and a foot wide, freshly made, exquisite.

“So pretty,” she said in awe.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen one that big or perfect.” He snapped a picture and marvelled at how something so fragile could be the means of survival.
No one else was around, no movement across the fields, or boats, or any sign of humanity. The shore was as wild as the river, which malevolently charged past sandbars, the feeling of certain death if you were to fall in, tendrils of the current would wrap around your legs and pull you into the depths. Eva looked upward at Mount Cheam sleeping darkly, the sky behind lightening, ready to magnificently burst over the crest, happy to see Eva participating in the primal rhythm of doing, being, acting with intention to witness the natural wonder of the cosmos, the earth, each other, and their conscious place in it, a little hungry, slightly needing to pee again, chilly. But nothing so far, needing to be patient and mindful to accept things they did not control. An industrial-looking boat chugged upstream, an ugly box vessel that seemed suited for some commercial purpose, like a clunky old delivery truck. Hunched at the helm was a man with a ruddy grey cap, indifferent to the churning flow against him. What was his intention that day? Were there loved ones at home still asleep? What did he believe?

Nothing happened. There were no angelic rays of acknowledgment or revelation. The sun rose over Mount Cheam, and it was now simply daytime, which made them feel exposed and naked, as if they were supposed to be somewhere else, like every other human, instead of wasting their time here. Again, something had been cancelled and they hadn’t been notified. He felt bad for her as they waited another ten minutes, but still, nothing, and they averted their eyes from each other to not feel embarrassed about being up so early to stand on a scrubby, ugly shore with puffy eyes in late middle age.

They had toast and eggs, then fell into bed and ran their hands and mouths over each other intensely, having had a good sleep, breakfast, and caffeine. Spooning, they moaned and shuddered unbelievably. It felt like more than just great sex. That led him back to thoughts about what he could and should do for her.

He needed a shower and announced it. She wanted to write for a little while, and then they would go for a walk at Bridal Veil Falls. After dressing, he checked his work stats and email, everything was fine and he felt the most relaxed he had in days.

Sunshine slipped down the tall cedar, fir, and maple trees in dashes to the low ferns and salal, blanketing the trail at times, warming their bodies like loving hands. They strolled, in no hurry, the first feelings of vacation loosened his chest and calmed his mind another notch. He was there with her, it was good to be alive, more vacations with her was what he needed. They sat on a smooth log for a water.

Spencer was telling Eva about his high school ski coach. “He actually ended up being awarded the Order of Canada, there was this one thing he taught, I’ll never forget it, which is when if it was raining on race day, which is a huge problem for x-country skiers because there’s virtually no wax you can use to grip the track because you’re essentially trying to get your skis to grip onto water so everyone arrives on race day and automatically gives up because it’s raining so our coach said, that’s your advantage – everyone has given up so if you take a positive attitude and wax your skis as best you can and do your best, it’ll be shitty, but you’ll probably win the race simply because you had a positive attitude. It’s how you look at the problem that solves it. Sometimes there’s not even a problem, the only problem is how you’re looking at it. It’s like that with clients sometimes, the way they’re looking at the problem and I’m not even working on that but rather showing them what the real issue is, often based on data, they’re caught up in their emotions, screaming out at them.”

She looked away and then calmly asked, “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s really hard to have a conversation when you talk that way. You don’t leave space for me to respond and then you’re on to the next thing.”
His heart sank but he didn’t show it. “Oh, yeah. I do that – you’re not the first person who ever told me that. I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “It’s not the first time you’ve done it with me.”

He kept his look forward, in the shadows of the salal and ferns. “It’s a bad habit.”

She nodded, looked down, then put away her water and stood up. He followed. The sun had paled behind a veil of cloud. He kept silent, hoping she would open a forgiving conversation but there was only the light crunch of their feet. Suddenly, something moved to his right, it was a large deer, startled by their presence, leaping away. “A deer!” He whispered to her.

“Where?!”

“Did you see it?”

“No, missed it.”

“A big one. Beautiful.”

“I can’t believe that,” she said disappointed. It was the second time that day she felt short-changed by nature.

“Maybe we’ll see another. Or a bear.”

Conversation slowly thawed: family, university days, first jobs. He was vigilant to keep responses down to one thought and defaulted to asking her questions to provide a stage for her expressions and opinions. She seemed to like that. They could hear the white noise of the falls ahead and soon they were at the bottom of the fanned veil, looking up at the bride’s crown. He kept quiet and stared at the beauty of falling water to counter his ill feelings. He touched it for a moment and immediately pulled away, it was ice cold. He looked over, Eva had her hand calmly resting in the flow. He shivered.

She straightened and edged back to the trail, he read this as impatience and followed. After a minute, she broked the silence. “The last time I saw my sister, she was really angry with me.”

“About what?”

She exhaled loudly. “Nothing! I was late because of the bus!” Her voice faltered. “Other stupid stuff.” She groaned, which sounded like a precursor to crying. “Eight months later…she overdosed on sleeping pills.”

Spencer stopped walking and closed his eyes. When he opened them Eva had sat down on a log with broken branches sticking out of it. Her face was slumped, her mouth slightly open, her chest rose and fell. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.” He sat down beside her and took a deep breath, a broken branch jutting between them.

“After the plane crashed…” She kept her face turned away from him. “I was able to get out on my own before the paramedics came, it took about, I don’t know, must have been twenty, thirty minutes. For that whole time, the only thing I could think of was Sandy.”

“You mean, you…thought maybe you would see her?” The forest was quiet, even the faint noise of the falls had seemed to cease.

“Yeah,” she said in her most frail voice. “And I was so freaked out, I thought she’d still be angry with me.”

 

When they returned to their room, they fell into a deep sleep, exhausted. He woke before her, tiptoed to a soft chair and checked his phone to see if there were any work messages. None, wonderful. He picked up the detective novel he’d brought with him and read a few pages distractedly, re-reading passages, unable to concentrate, his heart cluttered with Eva’s world.

Minutes later she woke and turned to him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied and smiled.

“I really went out. What time is it?”

“Four thirty.”

“Oh, wow. So what’s the plan?”

“Dinner in town still sounds good to me, you?”

“Yeah.” She got up, opened the curtain and took in the mountain, resolute and patient in the sun, the sky mostly clear again. “When do you want to get going?”

“Anytime.”

“Yeah, I’d like to eat earlier rather than later.”

“Sure, let’s go – I could really go for a pizza.”

“Pizza’s not my thing, can’t.”

“Oh.” He searched on his phone while she changed her clothes. “There are a couple of sushi places and an Indian place, Chinese, and an ‘everything’ place, burgers, pasta.”

“Indian, actually no, sushi would be best for me.”

“Sushi it is!”

 

Twenty minutes later he parked on the main street, the typical tiny town main drag with a fire station at one end and a church at the other. Hardware store, bookstore, outdated department store, a few restaurants, an insurance broker, a lawyer, and a funky independent coffee shop. The sun was still warm and bright. They decided to explore before dinner and strolled the unremarkable but quaint grid. They passed a compound of newish condos, retirees sitting on tiny porches above tiny patches of electric-green grass with their evening cocktails, perhaps hoping for a call from the kids. Spencer put himself in their shoes.

“Would you live in a place like that?” she asked.

“Maybe. It’s not the worst.”

“Yep.”

Could they or would they live in a place which conjured the word ‘compound’, devoid of character and history, but safe and clean with modern conveniences? It seemed possible, maybe not so bad, not so bad at all if Eva was there with him, but alone, void of anything, he’d be miserable. “Like any place, it depends on who you’re with.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her, the ball in her court.
“It seems kind of…packed together and there are never enough trees in these places.”

 

They decided on a local family restaurant when Eva saw that there were fish and chips on the menu. It was hot inside, stuffed with smells of food and bodies, chatter, and music.

“You have a patio?” Spencer asked the hostess.

“Yeah, absolutely.” She led them through the buzzing cloud of everything through a door to a spacious patio with only one other couple there, which seemed odd with the sun shining, colourful umbrellas, and a view into a bank of cedar and pine at the edge of a small park. Eva smiled at him after the host had left the laminated menus, “This is perfect.”

Eva savoured her fish and chips.

“Good?” he asked. She nodded with a closed lip smile, her mouth full. This made him happy. She swallowed and took a drink of her cider, already half-gone.

“We should have brought a joint,” she said, not making eye contact with him.
He liked the idea. “We can get one,” he said.

“Around here? I didn’t see any stores.”

He took out his phone and searched. “Chilliwack, lots of places.”

Within the hour they he pulled her car into a spot outside a cannabis store. “I don’t know what to get,” she said, freeing herself from the seatbelt. “I’m not the one who usually buys it.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “They’ll help us.”

“Help us? Really?”

“Of course.”

“Nothing too strong,” she said. “I just want to laugh.”

“Yeah, for sure,” he said. “I’m with you on that.” He held the door open for her.

Except for the clerk, they were the only ones there, a curvy woman in her early twenties with neat brown hair and glasses. The store didn’t only sell weed, there were hats and figurines from movies, cards, and other pop culture items – all of it arranged and presented with pride, the kinds of things you might buy if you were ten years old, or as an adult, if you were high.

“We want something that will make us laugh,” he said.

Eva chuckled nervously.

“Okay, sure,” said the clerk, smiling. “Do you have anything in particular in mind?”

“We’re total lightweights so give us the lightest thing you have,” he said, knowing it would ease Eva’s concern.

“A sativa then, something heady.”

“Sativa, definitely, indica would just put us to sleep.”
“Are you rolling it yourselves?”

“No, we just need one, pre-rolled.”

“Okay, I recommend this one, the Banana Buddy – I love it, just a nice buzz, nothing too intense.”

“Perfect.”

“I like your shirt,” Eva said. It was a pink unicorn.

“Oh, thanks, a little stained, I was tending the sheep earlier.”

“You have a farm?” he asked.

“Yeah, it was my parents. My partner and I work it now.” She said this with a bemused smile and rolled her eyes. She put the pre-rolled container on the counter and rang up the sale.

 

As drove back, Eva searched on her phone. “Let’s a find a place.” He knew what she meant – a nice place to smoke. “Cheam Lake Wetlands Park,” she said. She turned on her GPS for directions.
“I want you to promise me something,” she said with an air of excitement.

“Okay!” he agreed, amused. This was certainly going to be about the weed.

“If I say I’m not feeling anything after smoking, don’t give me more.”

“Got it.”

“I’m serious. I need you to promise.”

“I promise. I know what you mean. You think it’s not doing anything and then you smoke more and then suddenly you’re way too stoned and it’s just awful.”

“Exactly!”

“Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”
He parked in the small parking lot. This time, there were actually some other cars, not just them, for once. One space over was a small truck backed into its space with a man about fifty, sitting alone with the window open, looking onto the lot, though there wasn’t much for him to look at. Was he waiting for someone? He looked to be in his sixties, tired and beaten.
They followed the meandering trail through dense mixes of waterways, willows and dogwood. The air was lively from the sweet marshy rot. The sun had dipped into deep orange, but it remained warm. He already felt a deep wave of relaxation knowing he would be high soon, like how the mouth waters before eating potato chips. They came to a bench overlooking a half-marshy stretch of water. Canada geese and ducks busied themselves nearby.

“If you had to choose a bird to be, which one would you choose?” he asked.

“A duck,” she said with mock seriousness.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“You’d like to be a duck too?”

“No, that you’d be good duck.”

They both laughed.

She said: “You’d be a good-”

“Eagle.”

“Beagle. Very obedient.” The look in her eye was endearing but serious.

“Only if you were my master. You could be dominant with me.”

“Aren’t I already doing that?”

“Ha, ha. Yes, you are, …yes, you are.”

He didn’t immediately move to take out the joint, not wanting to seem it meant so much. Looking over the water reminded him of the walk to the river’s edge that morning, which felt like a week ago. It felt like they were different people now.

He took out the joint and struggled to open the container.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

He laughed. “Damn modern packaging,” handing it to her, “Maybe there’s a millennial around who can help us.” She dug her nails in and got it open with some effort, and gave it back to him. He licked the joint to slow the burn, lit it with a good haul to get it going, and passed it to her. She gazed at it, like how she’d gazed at the cans of cider and beer that day, then took a puff and lightly inhaled, and then another short one before passing back to him. The heater on the end was hot, he took a quick drag to get it hotter and then a full toke gathering a thick cloud in his mouth which he then sucked down in a whoosh. He passed it back to her, she puffed and breathed in. He took one more small hit.

“Okay, I’m done,” he said.

“Okay, me too.”

He put it out. The sun touched the horizon through the trees, shards of hot orange sliced through. It was quiet, too quiet, like a freeze frame.

“Are you feeling anything?” she asked.

“Not really,” he said. They giggled.

“I’m not either.” More laughs.

“Are you saying you want another toke?”

“Just a little, do you think it’s okay?”

“Honestly,” he said, “this isn’t very strong – I think we can handle more, but we can wait a bit and see what happens first if you want.”

“No I think I’m fine, let’s have one more toke right now.”

He lit it and took a haul to get it going and then passed it to her. She took a strong puff and breathed it in deep. He took another medium haul and then she took a final one. The sun fell below the horizon. They looked about, everything in the marsh was lively. He put his hand on hers, then kissed her. Their eyes met each other anew, layers of vulnerability had dropped away, and free-falling felt good.

They walked back to the car and watched some birds, probably sparrows, darting in and out of a collection of birdhouses. He wondered what was inside the tiny houses, what they were doing in there, and if that was where they lived. They curved and dived with impressive speed, in and out of the houses, it looked like fun. Is that what they felt? Or was this just another working day like any other?

The man was still sitting alone in his truck when they pulled out and Spencer had an awful flash that it was him. No one around, no one knew where you were, no one was thinking about you, just you somewhere sitting and the clock ticking, the sun gone, and great big questions of why and what the hell and the answer always hammering back the same: I don’t know, I don’t understand. But today that wasn’t him, he was the other man, the one with the excited lady, the lady who wanted to take off his clothes and feel his hotness on her, but like everything, it comes, goes, and could suddenly feel cruel.

It was nearly dark when they returned. He had the feeling that it didn’t matter what came next because it all seemed good, as always, worries were absent when he was high.

“I’m still not feeling very much,” she said.

He laughed. “Smoke some more then.” He wanted her to be as high as he was, and if she happened to get too stoned, well, whatever, it was worth the risk.

They stepped onto the shared balcony, which was empty, and there was no sign of life anywhere in the building. They sat cozied up on the top step leading down to a large grassy area that fell into darkness. He took a haul to get the joint going, then handed it to her. She took multiple puffs and inhaled. He had another light toke to be polite, but he was already there, feeling good and silly. She said she was done. He stubbed it out and put it away. Instinctively the looked up at the stars. The silence felt dreamy.

She giggled. He wrapped his arm around her and touched her bum. “Oops,” he said. “Aren’t I supposed to ask permission to touch you?” She giggled again. “Can I touch your bum?” he said with an accent of unknown origin. More giggling. “You can touch mine,” he offered.

“I might. I haven’t decided yet.” She looked at him with a serious face then they couldn’t stop laughing. After a minute she tried to get a hold of herself. “Stop, stop.” He held his laugh back as best he could. “Stop, I need to stop.” Her chest heaved but it looked like she wasn’t getting any air. She gripped his hand and dug in her nails.

He went serious in a heartbeat and put a reassuring hand to the middle of her back. “Slow, Eva, slow, deep and slow, in…out.” She got a short breath in, but she still looked very alarmed. “Bring it down.” He took slow, deep, theatrical breaths for her to follow. Her wide eyes met his calm look. With each breath, she slowly calmed.

“I’m…okay. Okay. I’ve had that before.” She kept her concentration on breathing.

“Was it too much?”

“No, I think it was just the laughing – I’m not stoned. I think.” He chuckled for some relief. She chuckled, then giggled.

“Don’t start, now – breath, just breath.”

She nodded and did so for a whole minute, slow, normal breaths. The rest of the time, they spent staring at the stars, tripping, so many suns, who was out there looking back at them?

The air had cooled, so they went inside, and after crossing the threshold, he rested his hand on her shoulder to turn her around. They kissed tenderly. The warmth of the drug relaxed them into an unfettered closeness, and he noticed the absence of the usual tightness in his chest and stomach. Why couldn’t he feel so chilled out all the time? He wondered. He put a hand on her waist and guided her into a firm closeness and ran his palm under her shirt and up her back, his lips still on hers, every pleasurable sensation felt in slow motion.

They moved to the bed and peeled off their clothes with simple ease. One small warm lamp in the corner lit the room like a candle. Each detail was another wave of warm pleasure. Smells, skin, lines, the cut of her jaw, the rise of her neck, the sags, the pungent rabble of her bush. He was hard quickly but made no rush, instead nurturing and savouring, soon enough she invited him in, starting small and gentle then deeper until they felt like one, finally in the same place.

He was on his side, behind her, his arched backward starting to give all he had, a high and slippery thrust, slow on the way down, then again, building. She moaned deeply, a sonorous bliss-filled ache. He felt harder, bigger, energized.

“Wai…wait,” she said. He stopped, she slipped him out and grabbed his cock gently as if it would run away. “Stand, stand up there.” He stood beside the bed and she sat in front of him, licking and then taking him in her mouth slowly, savouringly. Lovingly. Her legs hung over the edge of the bed, spread wide, while she fingered herself and moaned onto his shaft.

“Oh my fucking, God,” he said. She slowed down on him so she could catch up, which didn’t take long. As she felt herself near the top, she sucked and jerked quickly. “Shit! Eva, are you fucking seri…oh fuuuuck.”

She spit the first shot back onto his shaft and then milked it quickly, craning underneath so the rest came on her face, and then she exploded in her own pleasure, a high-pitched sound he’d never heard from anyone, ever. If the world had shattered into pieces, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

They flopped on the bed as if gunned down, chests rising and falling. “Wow,” she said weakly. “Twice in one day!”