Chapter 2: Sophie Takes Control
Sophie pulled her mouth away.
The sound it made was wet, obscene, and it carried across the quiet room like a slap. Maggie's hips bucked upward, chasing the contact, but Sophie was already sitting back on her heels, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.
Her lips were swollen. Her chin glistened. She looked at Maggie's flushed, spread-eagled body—thighs trembling, chest heaving, cunt slick and open and desperate—and then she turned her head toward the door.
David was still standing there. Still frozen. Still hard enough that his jeans felt like a vice.
"Strip," Sophie said.
The word landed like a command from a drill sergeant. Flat. Uncompromising. Not a request.
David's hands moved before his brain caught up. He fumbled with his belt, the leather slipping through the loops, the buckle clinking. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, like he'd forgotten how buttons worked, how zippers functioned.
Sophie watched him. She didn't blink. Didn't smile. Just sat there on the couch beside Maggie's sprawled body, one hand resting on Maggie's knee, her thumb tracing lazy circles on the skin.
"She's been waiting for this," Sophie said. She gestured at Maggie—at the flush spreading down her chest, at the damp curls between her legs, at the way her breath came in short, ragged bursts. "Look at her. Look at what you did to her. She's been waiting for you to stop being careful. To stop being polite."
David's shirt hit the floor. His jeans followed. He stood there in his boxers, gray cotton, the elastic waistband sitting low on his hips, and he felt more exposed than he ever had in his life.
"Boxers too," Sophie said.
He pushed them down. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, curving slightly upward, already leaking at the tip. He hadn't been this hard in years. Maybe ever.
Sophie's eyes flicked down. Lingered. Then back up to his face.
"Get on the couch," she said. "Fuck your wife while I watch."
David moved.
The leather was cool against his knees as he climbed onto the couch. Maggie looked up at him—hazel eyes blown wide, lips parted, hair a tangled mess against the armrest. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her legs opened wider, an invitation, and David settled between them like he'd done a thousand times before.
But this wasn't a thousand times before.
This was different.
His cock hovered at her entrance, and he could feel the heat radiating off her, the wetness already slicking the tip. She was so ready it made his head spin. He pressed forward, just an inch, and she gasped.
"Don't go slow," Sophie said from somewhere behind him. "She doesn't want slow."
David pushed.
Maggie's cunt swallowed him in one long, wet slide, and she cried out—not a polite moan, not a performative sigh, but a raw, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his waist.
"Fuck," David breathed. "Fuck, Maggie."
"Harder," Sophie said.
David pulled back and slammed forward. The couch creaked. Maggie's tits bounced with the impact, and she threw her head back, exposing the long line of her throat.
"Again," Sophie said. "Harder. She can take it."
He did it again. And again. Each thrust drove deeper, harder, and Maggie met him halfway every time, hips rising to meet his, cunt clenching around his cock like a fist.
Sophie's voice cut through the rhythm. "Pull her hair."
David's hand moved on instinct. He tangled his fingers in Maggie's auburn waves and pulled—not gently, not playfully, but with real force. Maggie's back arched off the leather, and the sound she made was something between a gasp and a scream.
"Yes," she hissed. "Yes, fuck, David, yes."
"Make her beg," Sophie said.
David's rhythm faltered for just a second. He'd never made Maggie beg for anything. In eighteen years of marriage, their sex had been a conversation, a collaboration, a give-and-take. But this—this was something else. This was raw and filthy and so far outside his comfort zone that he felt like he was drowning.
But Maggie was drowning too. And she was loving it.
"Please," Maggie gasped. "Please, David, please don't stop, please—"
"Tell him what you want," Sophie said.
"I want—" Maggie's voice cracked. "I want you to fuck me like you hate me. Like you've been holding back for years and you just—oh, God—"
David cut her off with a thrust so deep it made her eyes roll back.
Sophie slid off the couch and settled into the armchair across from them. She crossed her legs—one ankle over the other knee—and let her hand drift down between her thighs. Her fingers found her clit and began to circle, slow and lazy, like she had all the time in the world.
"He's getting it," Sophie said. "See how she's dripping? That's what she wanted. Not candles and rose petals. Not slow and tender. She wanted to be fucked."
David couldn't speak. His breath came in grunts now, sharp and animal, and sweat dripped from his forehead onto Maggie's chest. The leather creaked beneath them. The lamp flickered. Everything in the room felt hot and close and alive.
Maggie's legs tightened around his waist. Her mouth fell open. Her eyes locked onto his, and there was something in them—something wild and desperate and utterly, completely grounded.
"I'm gonna come," she whispered. "David, I'm gonna—"
"Don't stop," Sophie said. "She's close. Faster."
David drove into her with everything he had. His hips slapped against her thighs. The couch groaned. Maggie's nails raked down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he didn't care. He wanted the marks. He wanted proof that this had happened.
"Come for me," he growled. The words came out rough, unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else. "Come on my cock. Now."
Maggie shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a wave—back arching, mouth open, a sound tearing from her throat that was half-scream, half-sob. Her cunt clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him, pulling him deeper.
And David followed.
His release hit him like a freight train. His vision went white at the edges. He pressed his forehead against Maggie's and came with a groan that seemed to start in his balls and end somewhere behind his eyes. His cock throbbed. His legs shook. And for a long, suspended moment, there was nothing in the world but the two of them, tangled and gasping and spent.
Then the room came back.
The lamp. The leather. The quiet hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.
And Sophie, still in the armchair, fingers still circling her clit, watching them with an expression that was equal parts satisfaction and hunger.
"Good," she said. "Now do it again. From behind this time."
David pulled out slowly. Hesitantly. His cock was still half-hard, slick with Maggie's wetness, and it twitched at the cool air. He looked down at his wife—at her flushed face, her swollen lips, the way her legs fell open as he withdrew.
"Again?" he said.
Maggie's eyes fluttered open. She smiled—a slow, predatory smile that was nothing like the woman who packed his lunch every morning.
"You heard her," she said. "I'm not done with you yet."
David's heart pounded. His hands were still shaking. But something had shifted inside him—something that had been buried for years, maybe decades, and was only now seeing the light.
He hadn't known he could be this person.
He was about to find out what else he was capable of.
The chair creaked as Sophie leaned back. Her fingers moved faster. Her lips parted.
"On your knees, Maggie," she said. "Ass up. Let your husband see what he's been missing."
Maggie rolled over. She got on her hands and knees on the leather, and David watched her back curve, her ass rise, the glistening folds of her cunt still open and wet and waiting for him.
Sophie's eyes met his across the room.
"Show me what you've got," she said. "Make her scream."
David grabbed Maggie's hips. He aligned himself. And for the first time in eighteen years of marriage, he let go of everything he thought he knew about himself and became someone new.
The night was just beginning.
David gripped Maggie's hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. The leather beneath her knees creaked with every shift of her weight, and her hair hung loose and wild around her face like a curtain of fire.
He was still slick with her, still hard, but his nerves had returned in a sharp, electric rush. This angle was different. Everything was different with Sophie's eyes on him—cold and hot at once, like a scalpel and a flame.
"Don't think," Sophie said from the chair. "Just move."
David pushed into her.
Maggie's back arched immediately. Her knuckles went white where she gripped the edge of the couch cushion, and the sound she made was low and filthy—a groan that seemed to vibrate through the leather and into his bones.
"Jesus," he breathed.
"Faster," Sophie said.
He found a rhythm. Not the careful, considerate pace he usually kept. This was ragged and deep and mean, each thrust shoving Maggie forward an inch. Her tits swayed beneath her, and she dropped her head between her shoulders, panting.
"Harder," Sophie said.
David slammed into her. The impact rippled through Maggie's spine, and she cried out—not pain, not quite, but something close. Something she wanted more of.
"Again."
He did it again. And again. The room filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the couch frame, the sound of Maggie's breath hitching every time he bottomed out inside her.
"Pull her up," Sophie said. "By the hair."
David reached forward. His fingers tangled in the damp mess of Maggie's hair, and he pulled—not a yank, not a jerk, but a slow, steady drag that brought her torso upright. Her back pressed against his chest. Her head fell back against his shoulder.
"Look at her," Sophie murmured.
David looked down. Maggie's eyes were half-closed. Her lips were parted and slick. Sweat shone on her throat, and her hands had moved from the couch to his thighs, gripping him for balance.
"She's beautiful like this," Sophie said. "Isn't she?"
"Yes," David said. His voice came out hoarse and strange.
"Tell her."
David swallowed. His hips kept moving—slower now, deeper, grinding into her from behind. "You're beautiful," he said. "You're so fucking beautiful, Maggie."
Maggie's cunt clenched around him. A reward.
Sophie shifted in the chair. She uncrossed her legs and stood, and David tracked her movement over Maggie's shoulder—the lean lines of her body, the dark patch between her thighs, the way her nipples had gone hard and tight.
"I want to taste her," Sophie said. "While you're inside her."
David's rhythm stuttered. "What?"
Sophie walked toward them. She knelt on the couch beside Maggie's bent form, and her hand came up to cup Maggie's jaw, turning her face. They kissed—wet and open, directly in David's line of sight. He felt Maggie moan into Sophie's mouth, felt the vibration of it from the inside.
Then Sophie pulled away. She slid down, positioning herself beneath Maggie, so that when David looked down he could see both of them—his wife's face and, lower, another woman's mouth pressing against her clit.
"Don't stop," Sophie said.
David didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His hips moved on autopilot, and every time he drove into Maggie, he drove her cunt down onto Sophie's tongue. The sensation had to be overwhelming—he could see it in the way Maggie's eyes rolled back, in the way her mouth opened around a sound that had no shape.
"Fuck," Maggie gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
Sophie's tongue worked in fast, tight strokes. Her hands gripped Maggie's thighs, holding her open, holding her still. David watched his own cock slide in and out of his wife's body, watched Sophie's mouth meet him there, felt the wet heat of her tongue brush against him on every withdrawal.
It was too much. Too strange. Too good.
He was going to come.
"Not yet," Sophie said, pulling her mouth away just enough to speak. "Hold it."
David clenched his jaw. His thighs shook. He thought about baseball scores, about lesson plans, about anything but the tight, wet heat of his wife's cunt and the sight of another woman's lips on her.
"Please," Maggie whispered. "Sophie, please, I need—"
"Beg him," Sophie said. "He's the one fucking you."
Maggie turned her head. Her eyes found David's, and they were wet at the corners—not from sadness, but from the sheer overwhelming pressure of being so thoroughly taken apart.
"Please, David," she said. "Let me come. Please. I'll do anything. Just let me—"
"Come," he said.
The word felt like a key turning in a lock.
Maggie's orgasm hit her like a seizure. Her whole body locked up, then shuddered, then locked up again. She screamed—a raw, cracked sound that seemed to tear its way out of her chest—and her cunt clenched down on David's cock like a fist.
Sophie didn't stop. Her tongue kept moving, softer now, drawing out every last tremor until Maggie collapsed forward onto the cushion, breathless and wrecked.
David pulled out.
His cock stood straight up, slick and twitching, and he was so close he could feel it building at the base of his spine. Just a few more strokes. Just—
Sophie moved.
She rose from between Maggie's legs, her mouth wet, her eyes dark, and she reached out and wrapped her hand around David's cock.
Her grip was firm. Practiced. She stroked him once, twice, and on the third stroke she leaned in and took him in her mouth.
David's knees nearly buckled.
She sucked him hard and fast, her tongue swirling around the head, her hand working the shaft in tight, twisting pulls. He could taste Maggie on her tongue—he could taste himself on her tongue—and the wrongness of it, the filth of it, only made him hotter.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Sophie—"
She didn't stop. She took him deeper, until he hit the back of her throat, and held him there. Her eyes stayed locked on his, and there was something in them—a challenge, a promise, a dare.
He came.
It hit him like a fist to the chest. His hips bucked forward, his hands flew to her head, and he emptied himself into her mouth with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere outside his own body. She swallowed. Every pulse. Every drop.
When he was done, she pulled back and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She was breathing hard. So was he.
Maggie lay sprawled on the couch, watching them both with heavy-lidded eyes. Her hair was a disaster. Her skin was flushed. And on her face was an expression he'd never seen before—sated and hungry at the same time.
"Well," Sophie said. "That was something."
David laughed. He couldn't help it. The sound came out shaky and raw, but it was real.
"It was," he said.
Sophie stood. She stretched, arms overhead, spine arching, and David watched the movement travel through her body—the flex of muscle, the pull of skin.
"I should go," she said.
Maggie pushed herself up on one elbow. "You don't have to."
Sophie looked at her. Something passed between them—unspoken, complicated.
"I know," Sophie said. "But I think you two need a minute."
She found her tank top and pulled it on. Her jeans followed. Her movements were unhurried, easy, like she'd done this a hundred times before. Maybe she had.
At the door, she paused. She looked at David, then at Maggie, and her lips curved into that slow, knowing smile.
"Same time next week?" she asked.
David didn't answer.
Maggie did.
"Maybe," she said. "We'll see."
Sophie nodded. Then she was gone, and the front door clicked shut behind her, and the room was quiet again except for the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the clock on the mantel.
David stood in the middle of the living room, naked and spent, and looked at his wife.
Maggie looked back.
The silence stretched. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was full—thick with everything that had just happened, everything that had just changed. She reached up and pushed a strand of hair from her face.
"So," she said.
"So," David echoed.
She sat up fully. The leather creaked. She patted the cushion beside her.
"Come here."
He went. He sat, and she leaned into him, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. Her hand found his, and their fingers laced together.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
David considered the question. He thought about the answer. And then he told the truth.
"Like I don't know who I am anymore," he said. "In the best possible way."
Maggie laughed. Soft. Warm. The laugh of the woman who packed his lunch and left her coffee mug in the sink and held his hand at funerals.
"Good," she said. "That's exactly how I wanted you to feel."
She kissed his shoulder. Then his neck. Then his lips—slow, tender, a different kind of intimacy entirely.
"Come to bed," she said.
He followed her. The lamp clicked off, and the living room fell into darkness, and somewhere in the house a floorboard creaked.
They didn't sleep for a long time after that.
The bedroom was dark except for the sliver of moonlight that slipped through the blinds. Maggie lay on her side, facing him, one hand tucked beneath her pillow.
"You know what I realized tonight?" she said.
"What?"
"That I married a man who was afraid of himself." She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip. "And I just watched him stop being afraid."
David closed his eyes. Her touch was light, almost nothing, and it still made his chest ache.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"You're not going to say it back?"
Maggie smiled. He could hear it even in the dark.
"I don't need to," she said. "You already know."
She was right. He did.
They lay there in the dark, tangled together, and David felt the weight of eighteen years settle around him—not as a burden, but as something solid. Something he could stand on.
Something he could build from.
He didn't know what would happen next. He didn't know if Sophie would come back, or if tonight was a one-time thing, or if he'd wake up tomorrow and feel like himself again.
But for the first time in a long time, he was okay with not knowing.
The night was over.
The story was just beginning.
Sophie returns.
Not to the house. Not yet. But to the conversation, to the space between David and Maggie, to the tangled sheets and the drying sweat and the silence that had settled over the bedroom like a held breath.
Maggie's phone buzzed on the nightstand at 11:47 PM.
David felt her shift beside him. Felt the mattress dip as she rolled over and reached for it. The screen lit up her face in pale blue—hazel eyes squinting, lips curving as she read.
"She wants to know if we're okay," Maggie said.
David stared at the ceiling. The fan had stopped hours ago, and the stillness felt heavy. "What do you want to tell her?"
Maggie typed something. Hit send. Dropped the phone back on the nightstand. She rolled toward him, and her hand found his chest, fingers splaying over his heart.
"I told her the truth," she said. "That you were incredible. That I've never come like that in my life."
David's cock twitched beneath the sheet. He ignored it. Tried to, anyway.
"And?"
"And she said she wants to see us again. Soon."
The word hung there. Soon. David turned his head on the pillow. Maggie's face was close—close enough that he could see the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, the freckle on her cheekbone that he'd kissed a thousand times.
"How soon?" he asked.
Maggie's smile was slow. Deliberate. "She asked if we were free Friday."
David's pulse kicked. "That's two days away."
"I know."
"You already said yes."
"I said maybe." Maggie's hand slid lower, tracing the line of his sternum, his stomach, the waistband of the sheet. "But I wanted to check with you first."
David closed his eyes. The image from earlier flashed behind his lids—Sophie on her knees between Maggie's legs, her mouth wet, her eyes locked on his. The taste of himself on her tongue. The way she'd swallowed him down like she'd been waiting years for the chance.
"I'm in," he said.
Maggie laughed. Soft and warm and genuine. "I know."
She kissed him—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that wasn't a prelude to anything. Just a reminder. Just a promise. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright in the darkness.
"There's something else," she said.
David's stomach tightened. "What?"
"She mentioned something. A friend of hers. Someone she's been wanting to—" Maggie paused. Choosing words. "Someone she thinks might be a good fit for what we're exploring."
David propped himself up on one elbow. The sheet pooled at his waist, and the cool air from the ceiling fan—the one that had stopped, he remembered, hours ago—brushed against his bare back. "A friend."
"A woman. Someone she trusts. Someone who's been in this lifestyle for years."
David blinked. "Lifestyle."
Maggie shrugged one shoulder. "That's what she called it. She said she knows people. People who do this. People who've been doing this for a long time and know how to keep it safe. Keep it consensual. Keep it fun."
David lay back down. His mind raced—not with fear, not with hesitation, but with something closer to curiosity. He'd spent forty-six years being predictable. Reliable. The kind of man who ate the same breakfast every morning and wore the same style of glasses since college.
And now he was lying in bed with his wife, discussing a lifestyle he hadn't known existed two weeks ago.
"Who is she?" he asked.
"Her name's Rachel. She's a nurse. Works nights at Mercy General. Sophie says she's been in the scene for over a decade."
"The scene."
"You keep repeating things."
"I'm processing."
Maggie propped herself up on her elbow, mirroring his earlier position. Her auburn hair fell over one shoulder, and the moonlight caught the curve of her breast. David tried not to stare. Failed.
"David," she said. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You know that, right? This whole thing—it only works if we're both honest. Both comfortable."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was warm. Familiar. And yet everything about tonight had made her feel new.
"I'm comfortable," he said. "I'm just—"
"Processing."
"Yeah."
Maggie smiled. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. When she pulled back, her expression had shifted—softer now, more serious.
"I love you," she said. "That hasn't changed. That won't change."
David felt the words settle into his chest. Warm. Solid. A foundation.
"I love you too," he said.
Maggie reached for her phone again. Typed something quick. Hit send.
"What did you tell her?" David asked.
"That we're in for Friday. And that we want to meet Rachel first. Somewhere neutral. Just to talk."
David nodded. That made sense. That felt right. His brain—the part that liked lesson plans and research and thorough preparation—latched onto the idea like a lifeline.
"Where?"
"Coffee shop on Elm. Saturday morning. Sophie says Rachel's free before her shift."
David exhaled. Slow. Steady. The ceiling fan wasn't moving, but he felt like he was.
"Okay," he said.
Maggie set the phone down. She turned off the lamp on her side of the bed, and the room fell into deeper darkness. Just moonlight now. Just shadows.
"Get some sleep," she said. "You have school tomorrow."
David laughed. The sound surprised him—genuine and light. "I have to teach the Civil War to a bunch of sophomores who'd rather be on their phones."
"Welcome to your life."
She curled against him, her head on his chest, her breath warm against his skin. David wrapped an arm around her and stared at the ceiling. His mind was still racing, but his body was heavy. Tired. Sated.
He closed his eyes.
——
The coffee shop on Elm was called The Grind. It was small and cramped and smelled like burnt espresso and old newspapers. David arrived first, at 9:45, and claimed a table near the window. He ordered a black coffee and a blueberry scone he didn't eat.
Maggie walked in at 9:55. She wore jeans and a loose sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked so normal—so much like the woman who packed his lunch and reminded him to take his vitamins—that David almost laughed.
"Hey," she said, sliding into the chair across from him.
"Hey."
She stole a piece of his scone. "Nervous?"
"A little."
"Me too."
They sat in silence for a moment. The door opened, and a woman walked in—tall, with dark skin and close-cropped gray hair. She wore scrubs and a lanyard with a hospital badge. She scanned the room, spotted them, and walked over.
"Sophie's friends?" she asked.
David nodded. "David. This is Maggie."
"Rachel." She shook hands with both of them, then sat. Her eyes were sharp and kind at the same time—the eyes of someone who'd seen a lot and judged very little. "Sophie told me you're new to this."
"That obvious?" Maggie asked.
"Not obvious. Just—careful." Rachel smiled. "That's good. Careful is good. Careful means you're paying attention."
A waitress appeared. Rachel ordered green tea and a bagel. When the waitress left, she folded her hands on the table and looked at them both.
"So," she said. "Tell me what you're looking for."
David glanced at Maggie. Maggie glanced back. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then Maggie said, "We don't know yet. That's the truth. We're figuring it out."
Rachel nodded. "That's the best answer you could've given me. Anyone who says they know exactly what they want on day one is either lying or about to get hurt."
She took a sip of the tea the waitress had just delivered. "Here's what I can offer. I've been in the lifestyle for twelve years. I've seen couples come and go—some who make it work, some who don't. The ones who make it work have three things in common."
She held up a finger. "Honesty. No secrets. No surprises."
A second finger. "Communication. Before, during, after. Check-ins. Safe words. Boundaries."
A third finger. "Respect. For each other. For everyone involved. For the fact that this is supposed to be fun, not a competition."
David nodded. His coffee had gone cold, but he didn't care. This was the research phase. This was the part he understood.
"What's a safe word?" he asked.
Rachel smiled. "A word you use when you need to stop. Something that wouldn't come up in normal conversation. Red is common. So is pineapple."
"Pineapple," Maggie repeated.
"It works. Trust me. Nothing kills the mood faster than someone saying 'pineapple' in the middle of things."
David laughed. It felt good. It felt normal. It felt like the beginning of something he didn't fully understand yet but wanted to.
Rachel leaned back in her chair. "Sophie told me about last night. Not details—just the broad strokes. She said you two are naturals."
Maggie's cheeks flushed. "She said that?"
"She did. She also said she wants to see you again. Both of you." Rachel's eyes moved between them. "But she wanted me to meet you first. To make sure you're solid. To make sure this isn't a midlife crisis or a marriage falling apart."
David sat up straighter. "It's not."
"I know." Rachel smiled. "I can tell. You two have something real. That's why I said yes."
The waitress came back. Rachel paid her tab, stood, and pulled a business card from her pocket. She set it on the table.
"That's my number," she said. "Text me if you want to talk more. If not, no hard feelings. Either way—enjoy each other. That's the whole point."
She left.
David stared at the card. It was plain white, with just her name and a phone number in black ink. No title. No office address. Just a name.
"Well," Maggie said.
David picked up the card. Tucked it into his wallet.
"Friday," he said.
Maggie reached across the table and took his hand. Her grip was warm. Steady. The grip of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to reach for it.
"Friday," she echoed.
They walked out of the coffee shop together. The sun was bright, and the street was crowded, and somewhere a dog was barking at a delivery truck. David held the door for Maggie, and she touched his arm as she walked through, and the gesture was so ordinary—so married—that it made his chest ache.
Sophie would be at their house in six days.
David didn't know what would happen when she walked through the door. He didn't know what would happen after that. But for the first time in a long time, he wasn't trying to predict it.
He was just going to let it happen.
The phone buzzed in his pocket. A text. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
Sophie: Can't wait for Friday. I've been thinking about you both.
David read it twice. Then he typed a reply.
David: Same. See you then.
He hit send and slid the phone back into his pocket. Maggie was watching him, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Sophie?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"What did she say?"
"That she can't wait for Friday."
Maggie's smile widened. "Neither can I."
They walked to the car. David opened her door, and she slid in, and he closed it behind her. Then he stood there for a moment in the parking lot, the sun warm on his face, the sounds of the city filling his ears.
Six days.
Six days until Sophie returned.
Six days until he found out what else he was capable of.