clang only faintly, and I don’t pay attention to them. Instead, I hurry home and tear open the box to find another champagne flute—from the San Diego hotel—and a brochure for a resort hotel in Saint Thomas.
Saint Thomas. He wants me to meet him in the Virgin Islands in three weeks.
I’ve been keeping most of my weekends free without ever making a willful decision about it, so I don’t have anything scheduled for that weekend. And I have enough money to afford the plane ticket, despite the three other trips I’ve made this year.
I never even ask myself the question. I knew before I opened the box that I was going to meet Richard wherever he’s planning to be.
Saint Thomas. I’m going to have to buy some new bathing suits and some pretty clothes suitable for a tropical climate.
Three weeks isn’t very far away.
THREE WEEKS MIGHT NOT be a long time to wait, but it ends up feeling like it. I’m restless. More jittery than ever. And the days drag on with interminable slowness.
Each night, I close my eyes and imagine what I’ll do with Richard. I visualize possibilities so vividly that I have to use my vibrator an embarrassing number of times. Usually more than once a day, which I’ve never had to do in my whole life. It’s not even quick, discreet sessions over my pajamas and under the covers like I used to do—panting into a pillow and biting my lip to keep from making any sounds at the fast rush of hot feelings. Instead, I run my hands over my naked body—something I would have been too ashamed to do several months ago. I build myself up slowly. I make it last. I try different positions to see which one gives me the hardest orgasm. Sometimes I get so into it I shake the bed, loving the naughty sounds I make from the jiggling bedsprings and the banging headboard. And despite my attempt to stay quiet like I always used to, I moan and whimper as the pleasure builds up and cry out loudly as I come. I don’t even want to smother the sound with my hand or pillow as discretion would normally insist. I want to hear it.
Occasionally I’m so loud as I come I’m afraid the neighbor who shares my wall might hear me, but that fear is not enough to keep me from doing it again.
I never knew my body could feel this way. I never knew I could give this to myself.
I never knew my own pleasure wasn’t reliant on a man who might or might not want to do this to me.
I always collapse in bed afterward, exhausted, deeply relaxed, and physically satisfied, and I sleep for hours, as if my body knows it’s finally gotten what it has needed all this time. I wake up rested. Occasionally a little sore. And looking forward to what I’ll do in bed alone the next evening.
So I’m not hurting for orgasms—I’ve had more in the past month than I’ve ever had in my life—but I’m still incredibly excited when I get on the plane for Saint Thomas on a Friday afternoon.
The flight is long and bumpy, and the crowded airport is a pain. My driver is friendly and wants to chat the whole time when all I want to do is sit and think about Richard.
The resort is stunning. Luxurious. Exclusive. I can’t help but gape as the car drops me off and I go to check in. The friendly staff is expecting me. After I’m welcomed and given a key, a bellman takes my suitcase and leads me to the room.
It’s not actually a room. It’s a freestanding bungalow right on the water with an expansive patio and a private pool. I see this as we walk around to the entrance of the suite.
My whole body throbs in anticipation. It’s literally throbbing. I’m already ridiculously aroused just at the expectation of seeing Richard again.
He swings the door open before I can even knock. He’s in tan trousers and a T-shirt. He looks as handsome as ever, but he also looks tense. He’s not smiling.
He tips the bellman and takes my suitcase, putting a hand on my back to guide me in before he closes and locks the door.
“Is everything all—” I don’t even finish the question.
I can’t finish the question because Richard has pushed me up against the wall and is kissing me hard.
He must have been anticipating too. He must