Page 10 of Sunny Side Up

I woke up at 5:05 on the morning of our rendezvous, ten minutes before my alarm went off.

I was way too jittery for coffee, so I jumped in a quick shower, covered myself in the best-smelling lotion I owned, and spent way too long trying to find a “sexy” playlist before settling on one literally called “Sexy Time”—good enough.

Finally, I dug out lingerie from the back of my drawer that I had bought for my honeymoon but never worn.

It was tight, definitely a little small—my boobs were thrust up toward the jumble of delicate gold necklaces that I never took off, with two crescent moons of under-boob below the pale pink lace-covered wire.

The matching lace thong dug into the flesh of my hips, but I tried to see myself through Cillian’s eyes: a “total knockout,” with voluptuous handfuls of velvet skin.

I pulled on a pair of sheer black thigh-high stockings, then decided that if I was going to commit, I should commit all the way: I hooked the lingerie set’s accompanying garter belt behind my back and clipped the little straps to my stockings.

I slipped on a pair of pointed pumps and admired myself in the mirror. Honestly, I was turning myself on.

He’ll be over any minute , I texted the First Wives Club group chat. Noor had recently renamed the group and updated the chat’s avatar with a movie still from the iconic “You Don’t Own Me” scene.

Sunny: Wish me luck. And if you don’t hear from me by 8:30am, his name is Cillian and you should call the police.

At 6:25 a.m., my stomach sank. Of course he wasn’t coming. I groaned, covering my face with my hands. I was delusional. Why would he want me ?

My brain started spiraling. What if he had somehow found my Instagram, gotten a better look at me, and decided I wasn’t his type?

What if he did come over, and he didn’t like my body up close, without the glare from my windows?

All of it felt plausible. By the end of our marriage, Zack would barely touch me.

I think he actively found me unappealing.

In our first year of dating, we’d had sex all the time, sometimes daily.

We were in our twenties. We were horny and alive!

But by the second year, something fizzled.

Sleeping together once a month trickled into a Holidays Only routine.

Every time I tried to initiate, I was met with the usual excuses: “I’m just exhausted from work,” or “I shouldn’t have had that second burrito, sorry, babe. ”

I tried bringing it up when we were away from the bedroom so he didn’t feel trapped; I even asked Zack about it once when we were walking the High Line.

It was one of those warm winter days, and all the couples strolling past us were attached at the hip, fingers intertwined, locked together like magnets.

Inspired, I went to grab his hand, to enjoy a romantic afternoon like all the other pairs around us, but Zack tucked his palm in his back pocket.

It was subtle, but the rejection still stung.

“Is something wrong? Why aren’t you into me anymore?

” I had managed to croak out. Zack was stunned, swearing he was still attracted to me.

He claimed (as usual) that he was just tired from work, frustrated at being stuck as a production assistant, stressed about his career.

He needed to prioritize his energy. I tried to understand that left no room at all for me, even as it chipped away at my self-esteem.

I was picking at my own manicure when I heard my doorbell buzz, jolting me back into the room.

I ran to the intercom, confirmed it was Cillian, then, in my sultriest voice, told him to come up.

At the last second, I threw on a short white silk robe and kicked off my heels, just in case he was here to “hang art.” I’d improvise if that were the case.

I’d also die of embarrassment, but at least I’d be in great lingerie when they found me.

My palms were sweaty with anticipation, my breath shallow.

I opened the door to my apartment as the elevator dinged open, waiting for him in the doorway in what I hoped was a casual yet seductive (but not too obvious, just in case he wasn’t here to be seduced) pose.

I watched him saunter down the hallway toward me with his easy smile, that same twinkle in his eye. He wore a puffy coat over a sweatshirt, the thick canvas of his Carhartt pants making a swishing noise while he walked.

“Thanks for doing this,” I practically whispered.

“My pleasure.” He held my gaze, hard, and I felt a pulse between my thighs.

I let him into the apartment and offered him coffee while he took his coat off, looking around with a whistle.

“Pretty nice place you got here.”

I closed the door behind me with a click. Now what?

He walked up to the windows where we’d first made eye contact and started chuckling.

“So you do have curtains, I see. I thought you might need help with those, too.”

“I don’t normally have strange men lurking around my window, you know.”

He was looking at the view from between a space he’d made in the blinds.

“Ah, well, lucky for me,” he said. His voice was low. He turned around, leaned back against the windowsill, and cocked his head a bit.

I took a step closer. “Lucky for me .” (Was I even making sense?)

He ran his hands through his hair, then down over his scruff. He was watching me with the same intensity as he had the first time I saw him, only now he was here, in this room, with only air between us.

I took another step closer and brought my hands to the ties of my robe. His eyes moved down to my fingers, watching me as I slowly undid the knot, giving him time—just in case—to bring up all that “artwork” I’d mentioned.

He watched me pull the slips of the knot undone. No objections.

I let the robe slip off my shoulders and drop to the floor like liquid.

He curled in his bottom lip and swiped it with the tip of his tongue. Now my whole body was pulsing. This was happening.

He took a step forward. I turned away, playing coy, and began walking toward my bedroom.

I let my hips sway, relishing the surprise I’d just given him, torturing myself by not watching his reaction, cheering myself on from my rational self’s out-of-body sideline.

I heard his footsteps gaining pace on mine.

Before I reached the bedroom, he reached around my body with one arm and put his giant hand just below my neck, bringing me into his chest. He wrapped his other arm around my waist, dropped his hand down low, and pulled me up against him so that I could feel how hard he was.

“Like I said,” Cillian whispered, voice low, his accent running its tongue down my back, his lips on my neck. “A total fucking knockout.”

He spun me around, and in one deft movement, he lifted my body up onto his torso.

I wrapped my legs around him, the heat between us melting away the silly objection I almost gave to not pick me up.

The words I’m too heavy never left my mouth.

He slipped his tongue into my mouth, gentle against mine despite the ferocity of his grip on my ass, turning any further demurring thoughts in my head into syrup spilling out from a bottle.

He guided me down to the mattress. I watched him from my back, heart racing, as he stood to take off his sweatshirt.

He pulled the thick bib of his Carhartts down to his waist and stretched his shirt over his head.

A tattoo—some sort of Celtic lettering—stretched across his bicep.

With those rough hands and the full expression of just how turned on he was, Cillian managed to turn the ungraceful act of stepping out of coveralls into foreplay.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached my hand up to pull him down on top of me and hooked my leg around the back of his knee.

He shadowed me, on his hands and knees, like a lion about to devour its prey.

I reached up, gripped his broad shoulders, dug my nails into his back, my teeth into the hunk of muscle between his neck and shoulder.

I pushed him deep, deep against me and rocked up, pressing so hard; something was unlocking inside of me.

Something new. Something big and bold and free.

“Oh my god,” I whispered into his mouth. I reached for the condom that I’d slipped under my pillow that morning.

I was ready for where this new life would take me.

But I didn’t have time to think about it. He took over, pinning one wrist down, and then the other; my back arched, mouth open in ecstasy, as he rocked himself deep, deep inside of me.