The next morning after we’d gotten up and showered — another long, slow, delicious shower, where we took turns scrubbing one another down and which ended with me up against the wall once more as Connor drove into me with hard, deliberate strokes until I cried out in ecstasy — he came downstairs holding his laptop open, an amused expression on his face.
“I think you’re being paged,” he said. “I was catching up on my email, and the Facetime app kept going off. Your friend Sydney, I think.”
Oops. “Sorry about that,” I said, taking the computer from him. “You’d think she’d have the sense to wait until I got back to her.”
“Judging by how many times she pinged me, I have a feeling patience isn’t her strong suit.”
I couldn’t help chuckling. “Well, that’s true.”
He wandered off to the kitchen
