me to the most intense edge I’ve ever experienced.
“I love you.” I’m not sure if I say the words or think them, but suddenly I’m lost in an all-consuming wave of pleasure, everything I think and feel and am just pouring into her. I have no idea when I come down from it.
I’m lying with her in my arms, stroking her hair, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Who’s that?” Brooklyn murmurs.
Glancing at the clock, I remember that I’d arranged for a midnight dessert delivery from room service. I slip out of bed and throw a robe on, then go crack the door. There’s a staff member in the hallway standing beside a cart loaded with a silver domed tray, a small floral arrangement, two goblets of ice water, and a bottle of the best red wine they had on the menu. I give him a nod, sign the receipt without looking at it, and then bring the cart into the bedroom. Brooklyn sits up in all her naked glory and pulls her hair over one shoulder.
“Surprise for Mrs. Zoric,” I tell her by way of explanation.
“This is a good surprise,” she says.
I pull the curtains open wider so we can see the soft glow of the snow-topped mountains, and then get back into bed with a fat slice of chocolate cake and a glass of the wine.
I feed her a bite of the cake. It’s five layers of Belgian chocolate cake with alternating dark and white chocolate ganache filling, a delicate raspberry glaze over the top. She takes her time, savoring it, then takes the fork and feeds me a piece. This continues until the cake is gone and she’s purring over the last bite. There’s some chocolate on her lower lip. I pull her in for a slow kiss, and then we share the wine.
“Say it again,” she purrs, eyeing me over the rim of the glass.
“I love you.” There’s no need to withhold it from her.
She smiles. “I love you, too.”
And so, we’ve become that couple. The kind that professes their undying love while feeding each other cake in bed.
But truthfully?
I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Brooklyn
Chapter 22
It’s a weekday afternoon, and I’m sitting across from Emzee at a tiny table outside a famous Hyde Park deli that’s overrun with locals and tourists alike. After standing in line for over twenty minutes, we’re finally reaping our reward: a massive Italian beef sandwich we’re sharing under the shade of a huge umbrella. The famous special is served on a soft house-made roll, with piles of thinly sliced meat smothered in giardiniera, roasted peppers, and au jus. Emzee insisted we get Cherry Cokes and a side of cucumber salad to go with it, and I’m glad I agreed.
“This is literal heaven,” I mumble around a mouthful of, well, heaven.
“Told you,” she says, her mouth equally stuffed and her words equally garbled. After washing down her bite with a slug of soda, she sighs happily and looks around. “I love this neighborhood. The barrel-fronted brownstones, the parks, the big old trees.”
“Sorry Tori has to miss it,” I say, snapping a few photos with my phone to send to her.
“The pregnancy is really taking its toll,” Emzee admits. “I don’t think she’s kept a full meal down in weeks. The doctor has her on some anti-nausea meds, but it’s still pretty tough.”
“Poor thing. Hopefully the morning sickness will be over soon, though.”
“Yeah.” Emzee clears her throat and avoids looking at me as she asks, “So, uh, do you want to take a picture of me with my sandwich?” She takes a big bite of cucumber salad and raises her eyebrows in a failed attempt to look innocent.
“Excuse me?” I tease. “The ever-camera-shy photographer herself is asking little old me to take her photo with a deli sandwich? Sounds suspicious.”
“You take great photos, Brooklyn,” she says defensively. “And your social media posts are always on point. I just want something fun to post on mine, that’s all.”
“Oh really…” I take a long sip of Cherry Coke, narrowing my eyes at her.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she asks after dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Will you just do it already?”
I grin. “What’s his name?”
“What? It’s not like that!” Her cheeks grow pink and I know I’ve got her.
“Ha!” I boast with enthusiasm. “You’re totally crushing on someone! Is he an artist too?”
“You’re being stupid. And I don’t date other artists anymore. I’ve learned my lesson.”
She takes another big