I woke to find the room not quite dark, moonlight or street lamps flowing through the windows, and at first I thought I was alone, but then I saw Tim sitting in the corner chair. “Hello,” I said, “where’s Logan? Surely it’s too dark to paint?”

“Practicing,” Tim said. “He left me here to watch you. In case you need anything.”

“I think I’m good,” I said, getting off the bed.

“Not even a cup of tea? A square of Swiss chocolate? A back-rub?”

“First I need to pee,” I said, and I stepped into the bathroom, remembering with mixed feelings the time I’d caught Tim and my bride’s maid in the hotel bathroom a couple of years ago. I closed the door and thought about locking it, but didn’t. I let the water run so he wouldn’t hear me pee. How silly, after what he’d seen and heard this afternoon. But pregnant ladies are entitled to be silly, are they not?

I wiped and flushed and washed and dried and came back to the bedroom. Tim was waiting for me. I felt nervous. I wandered away, toward the window, and looked out a bit, and wondered if anyone down there could see me, and stepped back, turning to the dresser. I opened a drawer, but of course it was empty. I closed it. Tim was behind me.

His fingers slid down my back. I shivered. He had a gentle touch. Smooth and silky. I thought of penis skin. Logan’s penis skin, slippery from my kisses or from my cunt. Tim’s fingers found the small of my back. His other hand brushed my hair aside and caressed my earlobe. How did he know how much that turned me on? Had Logan blabbed? His fingers were making me crazy, the one at my ear, the one at my bottom, edging into the crease. I clenched to keep him out, but he waited, and when the clench ended his finger pushed into the furrow.

“We shouldn’t,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked, and his fingertip inched further. I clenched and opened and it went in, a scant inch. I clenched again and came. His finger worried its way deeper. I kept coming. I couldn’t stand up anymore. I sagged to the floor.

“I’m dead,” I said. “You’ve killed me. Bury me here.”

He brought blankets and pillows from the bed and arranged me. He lay next to me. “You have the loveliest, hottest, sexiest asshole in the whole wide world,” he said. “Logan is so fucking lucky.”

“He is,” I murmured.

He caressed my clit until I came again.

I thought I should kiss him and suck him and fuck him—I wanted to—but I didn’t have the energy. Now I was truly deeply dead.

I curled myself into as small a shape as I could and let myself be contained. Before I fell asleep, my thoughts were of Logan, of the piece he might be practicing. Silky and smooth as penis skin. I could hear it like breathing.