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on its way to the floor. The crashing and thumping and broken glass worked like a hormone shot on Sinclair, and now I was riding him, brushing splinters out of his hair, and cornering my orgasm while he laughed and shook beneath me.
    . . . you are . . . you are . . . ah . . .
    Oh, hush up. I tried a scowl. It didn’t take. He knew his laughter delighted me.
    Do not dare to stop.
    Dude, I didn’t let our antique cherry headboard stop this. Nothing short of a nuke dropped in the kitchen will stop this.
    I loathe when you call me dude.
    Don’t care. Do. Not. C—
    Surprise!
    Nnnnn . . . ninja orgasm . . . ahhhh . . .
    Oh yes oh God oh my Elizabeth oh—what? Did you—what?
    ( ) . . . ( )
    Are you thinking about ninjas right now?
    “Shut up, coming, I’m still coming,” I slurred, and his hands gripped, brutally tight, and then
    ( ) . . . ( )
    he was, too. The timing was outstanding, because I could watch his face while I came down from mine, just as he rose to his. His eyes, which had been narrowed in concentration (and consternation, when he picked the Python out of my thoughts), now widened and his eyes rolled back. It was unfair, dammit, it was hot when he did it. When I did it, I suspected I looked like I was drunk off my ass or struggling with the People magazine crossword.
    Please. Please, my love, my all, please. Stop thinking. Right now.
    “Bossy,” I gasped as he arched so hard only his head and heels were touching the mattress.
    “Nnnnnfff,” was his rebuttal. Pretty good, considering.
    When he came back down, literally and figuratively, it was to tug at me until my face was tucked into the hollow of his shoulder while he stroked my back with hands that shook.
    “C’n I start thinking now?”
    “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Would not dare assume—ouch!”
    “More where that came from.”
    “So I devoutly hope,” he replied, and I could hear the smile in his tone. He pinched me back, but I let it go. One of us had to be the mature one. A sad, sad day when it was me.

 CHAPTER 
    SIX
    “So, about Jessica.”
    Sinclair groaned. “Please. I never beg, unless it is for you, or to you, and I am begging now. Allow me to enjoy more than thirty seconds of postcoital bliss.”
    “We’ve got to talk about how you talk. ‘Ruffians’ and ‘postcoital bliss’ . . . I dunno. Sometimes I despair.”
    “As do I,” he muttered, seizing my wrist before I could tickle him in the ribs. “Knowing you as I do, I have resigned myself to twenty-eight seconds of afterglow and . . .” He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. “End afterglow. Proceed.”
    “How do you do that? You don’t have a watch.”
    “Decades of needing to know precisely when the sun rises and sets has left me with an excellent sense of time.” He brought my wrist to his mouth and kissed the underside, teasing the veins with his tongue for a second. “That is a skill it would be useful for you to learn.”
    “Don’t start something you can’t finish, tongue boy.” I yawned. “And can’t I master making lumpless gravy first?”
    “Come now, you have escaped death, and Hell, and Jessica’s wrath any number of times. You survived the Incident. You can do this,” he said encouragingly. “What time is it? Look at the sunshine on the bed, look at the shadows, and tell me the time.”
    “How would I know?” I complained. “This place is like Vegas, there aren’t any clocks.” There really weren’t. There was a creaky ancient grandfather clock on the main floor that hadn’t worked for, hmm, when did we declare independence from England? Yeah. It had been awhile. Everyone had laptops and cell phones. I assumed millennials didn’t actually know what a wall clock was .
    Sinclair sighed. “Darling, you’re a creature of the night—”
    “Except when I’m a creature of the day.”
    “—and should at least pretend to be interested in things like sunrise, sunset, and—hmm, I had a third, and it