Chapter 5: The Bucket List Comes Due
The kitchen smelled like Sunday morning, even though it was Wednesday. Cinnamon and coffee and the faint, sweet tang of sourdough cooling on the rack. Steam curled from the pot in lazy spirals, catching the light that slanted through the bay window and pooled on the butcher block island.
Maggie sat on one of the stools, her bare feet hooked on the rung, a pen twirling between her fingers. She was still in her running clothes—black leggings, a faded UMaine sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a messy knot that was coming loose at the edges.
David stood at the counter, his back to her, pouring coffee into two mugs. He wore jeans and a threadbare flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was still damp from the shower.
"Two weeks," Maggie said.
"I know."
"Since Lena."
"I know."
She watched him stir milk into her mug. Two sugars. The way he'd done it for eighteen years. The way he'd probably do it for eighteen more.
"You've been thinking about it," she said.
David turned. He carried both mugs to the island and set them down—one in front of her, one in front of the empty stool beside her.
"I've been thinking about a lot of things," he said.
Maggie reached for her coffee. Took a sip. The heat spread through her chest.
"Me too," she said.
She leaned down and picked up her bag from the floor. From inside, she pulled a folded piece of paper—creased and crumpled, like it had been carried around for weeks. Because it had.
She smoothed it flat on the island. Then she pulled out a second piece, and a third, and a fourth. She arranged them in a loose grid, like a hand of cards.
David sat down on the stool next to her. He didn't touch the papers. He just looked at them.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Our list," Maggie said. "Yours and mine. Combined."
She'd written the header herself, in looping purple ink: Things We Want To Try. The items below were in two different hands. Hers was neat and slanted. His was blocky and cramped, the pencil strokes faint in some places, like he'd been pressing too lightly.
David scanned the pages. His eyes moved slowly, line by line.
"Some of these are mine," he said.
"I know."
"Some of these are—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Some of these I wrote a long time ago."
Maggie nodded. She didn't say anything. She just waited.
David's finger landed on a line near the bottom of the second page. It was written in pencil, the handwriting shaky and uncertain. The lead had smudged in places, like he'd gone back over it, maybe more than once.
Watch Maggie fuck another man while I'm inside her.
Maggie read it aloud. Her voice was steady. Neutral.
David's face went red. Deep red. All the way to the tips of his ears.
"That's—" he started. Stopped. Tried again. "That's from before."
"I know."
"Before the party. Before Sophie. Before Lena." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wrote that months ago. When you first brought all this up. I was just—I don't know. Brainstorming."
Maggie set down the paper. She turned on her stool so she was facing him.
"Do you still want it?" she asked.
David looked at her. His brown eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. The lines around them that hadn't been there ten years ago. The gray at his temples that she'd always found ridiculously attractive.
"I don't know," he said.
"David."
"I do." The words came out fast, like he was afraid they'd get stuck if he didn't push them. "I do. But only if you do."
Maggie reached for her coffee. Took another sip. Set it down.
"I've been thinking about it," she said. "Since Lena. Since—since everything. I think I want it too."
"Think?"
"I want it." She said it firmly. No hesitation. "Not because I need another man. Not because you're not enough. Because I want to see what it does to you. To us."
David exhaled. Long and slow.
"That's—" He laughed. A short, surprised sound. "That's exactly what I was going to say."
Maggie smiled. She reached over and squeezed his hand.
"So we're doing this."
"I guess we are."
She picked up her phone. Scrolled through her contacts. Found the name she was looking for and pressed call.
Rachel answered on the second ring.
"Hey, girl. What's up?"
Maggie put the phone on speaker. Set it on the island between them.
"I need to ask you something," Maggie said. "And I need you to not make it weird."
Rachel laughed. "When have I ever made anything weird?"
"Remember the party? The one at your place last month?"
"Yeah."
"And remember what we talked about after? About expanding our horizons?"
Rachel's voice dropped. Softer now. More serious. "Yeah. I remember."
"We've been—exploring. David and I. We met someone. A woman. Things have been good."
"Good for you."
"But there's something else. Something on our list."
She looked at David. He nodded.
"We want to find a man," Maggie said. "Someone clean. Tested. Respectful. Not looking for a relationship. Just—one night. With us."
Rachel was quiet for a moment. Maggie could hear her thinking.
"I know someone," Rachel said.
David leaned forward. His hands were flat on the island, fingers spread wide.
"Go on," Maggie said.
"His name is Tom. He's forty-eight. Divorced. Contractor. He used to come to the parties before—well, before he got busy with work. He's respectful. Clean. Gets tested every three months, shows me the paperwork. And he's not looking for anything serious. Just good sex with people who know what they're doing."
Maggie looked at David. He was nodding.
"Can we talk to him?" Maggie asked.
"Right now?"
"If he's available."
Rachel laughed. "Hold on. Let me call him."
The line went quiet. Maggie and David sat there, listening to the faint hum of the connection. The coffee had gone cold in their mugs.
Then a click. A new voice.
"Hello?"
Low. Easy. The kind of voice that didn't need to shout to be heard.
"Tom?" Maggie asked.
"That's me."
"I'm Maggie. Rachel's friend. She told you about us?"
"She told me you were looking for someone. For one night. With your husband."
"That's right."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"What are you looking for? Exactly?"
Maggie looked at David again. He reached across the island and took her hand.
"We're not interested in power," she said. "Not control. Not submission. We're interested in pleasure. In sharing something. In—being together. All three of us."
Tom was quiet. Then he spoke.
"That's the only kind I'm interested in," he said.
David cleared his throat. Squeezed Maggie's hand.
"This is David," he said. "Maggie's husband."
"Hey, David."
"Hey."
"I want to be clear about something," David said. "This isn't about me watching from the sidelines. It's about—I want to be inside her. While she's with you. I want to feel it. All of it."
Tom's voice was calm. Steady. "I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yeah. I've done this before. Not a lot. But enough. It's about trust. About everyone being on the same page. About nobody getting hurt."
"No one gets hurt," Maggie said.
"Good," Tom said. "Then I'm in."
They set the date for Friday. Tom gave them his address—a house on the east side, near the water. He said he'd text them directions. He said he'd be clean and ready and not in a hurry.
When Maggie hung up, the kitchen felt different. Quieter. Like the air itself had changed.
She looked at David.
"You sure about this?" she asked.
He reached across the island. Took her hand. His palm was warm. His fingers laced through hers like they'd done a thousand times before.
"I've never been more sure of anything," he said.
Maggie squeezed his hand. Then she stood up. Walked around the island. Stood between his knees.
David looked up at her. His glasses had slipped down his nose. She pushed them back up.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
She bent down and kissed him. Slow. Soft. The way she'd kissed him at the car two weeks ago, outside Lena's building.
David's hands found her hips. Pulled her closer. She straddled his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs, her arms around his neck.
"I want to practice," she murmured against his mouth.
"Practice?"
"For Friday."
David laughed. Low and warm. "What kind of practice?"
Maggie pulled back. Looked at him. Her hazel eyes were bright.
"The kind where you're inside me," she said. "And I'm thinking about someone else."
David's breath caught. His hands tightened on her hips.
"You want that?"
"I want to see what it feels like."
He stood up. Lifted her off the stool. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he carried her through the kitchen, down the hall, into the bedroom.
The bed was unmade. Sheets tangled. The curtains half-drawn.
David laid her down. Pulled off her leggings. Her underwear. Tossed them on the floor.
She pulled at his flannel. The buttons popped open. She pushed it off his shoulders. Then his undershirt. Then his jeans.
They were both naked now. Skin against skin. His cock was hard, pressed against her thigh.
Maggie reached down. Wrapped her fingers around him. Stroked once. Twice.
"I want you to fuck me," she said. "And I want you to think about it. About Friday. About watching me."
David groaned. He positioned himself between her legs. Rubbed the head of his cock against her cunt—slow, teasing.
"You're already wet," he said.
"I've been wet since I read your list."
He pushed inside.
Maggie gasped. Her back arched. Her nails dug into his shoulders.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, David."
He moved slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Every stroke was a question.
"Do you want him to touch you?" David asked.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
He fucked her harder. The bed creaked. The headboard tapped against the wall.
"His hands," David said. "His hands on your tits."
"Yes."
"His mouth."
"Yes."
"His cock."
Maggie moaned. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Pulled him deeper.
"I want him to feel you," David said. "I want to feel you. Both of you."
She came first. A shuddering, gasping orgasm that made her whole body clench. David followed a few strokes later—pulling out just in time, finishing on her stomach with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
He collapsed beside her. Breathing hard. Sweat cooling on his skin.
Maggie turned her head. Looked at him.
"That was—" she started.
"Yeah."
"I think we're ready."
David reached for her hand. Laced his fingers through hers.
"Friday," he said.
"Friday."
They lay there for a while. The ceiling fan turned slow circles above them. Sunlight crept across the floor.
Then Maggie sat up. Swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"I need to shower," she said.
"I'll make more coffee."
She stood. Walked toward the bathroom. Stopped at the door.
"David?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He propped himself up on his elbows. Looked at her—naked, messy-haired, beautiful.
"For what?"
"For being you. For being willing."
David smiled. That slow, kind smile that had made her fall for him twenty years ago.
"Always," he said.
Maggie disappeared into the bathroom. The shower turned on. Steam curled under the door.
David lay back on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.
Friday was two days away.
He couldn't wait.
He couldn't wait.
Two days crawled by like a wounded animal. Thursday passed in a blur of lesson plans and parent emails, David's mind drifting mid-sentence, his students' faces blurring into a fog of indifference. He'd catch himself staring at the clock on the classroom wall, watching the second hand tick, and think about Friday—the drive, the door, the moment before everything changed.
Maggie was worse. She attacked the days with a manic energy, rearranging the bedroom furniture twice, deep-cleaning the kitchen, reorganizing David's bookshelf by color. He found her Wednesday night sitting on the bathroom floor at midnight, painting her toenails a shade of red she'd never worn before.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Fuckin' hot," she said, not looking up. "That's what Tom's going to see when I walk in."
He didn't know what to say to that. So he just watched her finish the last toe, cap the bottle, and stand. She pressed her wet nails against his chest and kissed him—hard, possessive, like she was staking a claim she'd already decided to share.
Friday morning, David woke before the alarm. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to identify what he was feeling. Not fear. Not guilt. Something closer to vertigo—that sensation of standing on a cliff edge with your toes hanging over nothing. He showered. Shaved. Ate breakfast he didn't taste. Drove to school and taught three classes and didn't remember a single word that came out of his mouth.
At 3:17, Maggie texted him: I took the afternoon off. I'm getting ready. Come home at 5. Don't be late.
He wasn't late.
The house was empty when he walked in. No Maggie in the kitchen. No water running in the bathroom. Just silence and the smell of her—something citrusy and sharp, her expensive perfume, the one she saved for nights she wanted to be noticed.
"Upstairs," she called.
He found her in the bedroom. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, naked except for a pair of black lace underwear that barely qualified as fabric. Her hair was down. Her body was exactly what it had been at twenty-five—strong, lean, sculpted by two decades of dedication that most people couldn't maintain for two years.
"What time is it?" she asked, still looking at her reflection. Not at him.
"Five-fifteen. We should leave by six."
She turned. The underwear was a scrap of nothing. The lace cut high on her hips, and through the sheer panel at the front, he could see the dark triangle of her cunt.
"You like it?" she asked.
"I'll ruin your makeup if I answer honestly."
Maggie smiled. Slow. Dangerous. She walked to the closet and pulled out a dress—slip-style, deep emerald, the kind of green that made her eyes look like molten gold. No bra. She stepped into it and let it fall.
"Zip me?"
He zipped her up. His knuckles brushed her bare back. She shivered.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Ask me again in an hour."
The address Tom gave them was a house on the east side, near the water. It looked ordinary—gray siding, blue shutters, a driveway that needed repaving. A single light burned in the front window.
Maggie parked on the street. Killed the engine.
They sat there. The quiet pressed in around them.
"Last chance," she said.
David reached over. Took her hand. His palm was sweaty. Hers was cool.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
They walked to the door together. Before they could knock, it opened.
Tom stood in the frame. Taller than David had expected—six-two, maybe—with broad shoulders and thick arms that looked like they'd done real work. His hair was dark, cut short, with gray threading through it at the temples. His eyes were gray, too. Flat. Calm. He wore jeans and a simple blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up to show tanned forearms.
"David," he said. A statement, not a question.
"Tom."
He held out his hand. David shook it. Firm grip. No games. No posturing.
Then Tom looked at Maggie. His gaze traveled down her body—slow, deliberate, unhurried. He didn't try to hide it.
"You're even better looking than Rachel said," he told her.
Maggie didn't blush. She didn't look away. "I know."
Tom stepped aside. "Come in."
The house was clean. Sparse. Leather couch, hardwood floors, abstract art on the walls that looked like it came from a gallery, not a discount store. No photos of kids, no wedding ring tan line. Just a man who lived alone and knew how to keep his space uncluttered.
There was a bottle of wine on the counter. Three glasses. Tom poured without asking.
"Hydrate," he said. "We've got time."
They drank. The wine was good—dry, expensive. Maggie stood by the window, looking out at the dark yard. David sat on the arm of the couch, holding his glass, trying to stop his knee from bouncing.
Tom drank his wine standing up. He watched them both with a patience that felt almost practiced.
"Been married long?" he asked.
"Eighteen years," David said.
"You do this often? Third parties?"
"Not often. A few times. Recently."
"Good. Amateurs get weird." Tom set down his glass. "You want to talk boundaries first?"
Maggie turned from the window. "No power games. No submission. No pain. Just pleasure. All three of us, same room, same bed. You touch me, I touch you, David touches both of us. If anyone needs to stop, we stop. No questions."
Tom nodded. "Clean. Simple. I can work with that."
David put down his wine. His hands were steady. He was surprised.
"One more thing," he said. "I want to be inside her while she's with you. Not watching from the corner. Not waiting my turn. I want to feel it."
Tom looked at him. A long, assessing look. Whatever he was searching for, he must have found it, because he nodded.
"That's the part I like best anyway," Tom said. "When the husband's right there. When she can feel both of us."
Maggie crossed the room. She stopped in front of David. Her hand found his cheek.
"You okay?" she asked, same question as before.
He turned his head. Kissed her palm.
"Yeah," he said. "I am."
Tom moved behind her. Close enough that David could see the heat of his body, the space between them shrinking to nothing. Tom's hands settled on Maggie's waist—light, just resting there.
"You nervous?" Tom asked her.
"Not even a little."
"Good."
His fingers found the zipper of her dress. He pulled it down, slow, the rasp of metal against teeth loud in the quiet room. The dress loosened. Tom's hands slid inside, over her bare shoulders, pushing the fabric down her arms. It pooled at her feet.
Maggie stood there in her black lace underwear. Tom stepped back. Looked at her. Then looked at David.
"She's beautiful," he said. Not a compliment. Just a fact.
David stood up. He kept his eyes on Maggie as he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. His belt. His jeans. He stepped out of them and stood there in his boxers, his cock half-hard against his thigh.
Tom undid his own shirt. Buttons first, then cuffs. He draped it over the back of a chair. His undershirt came next. Then his jeans.
He was built like a man who worked with his hands—thick through the chest, solid in the shoulders, a stomach that was flat but not cut. His cock hung heavy between his legs, already filling, thick and veined.
Maggie looked at both of them. Her eyes moved from David to Tom and back again. Then she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and pulled it down.
She stepped out of it. Kicked it aside. Stood there naked, between them, and smiled.
"Someone should turn off the light," she said.
"Leave it," Tom said.
He stepped forward. Reached for her. And David stepped forward too.
Tom’s hand found the small of her back first. David’s found her hip. They moved together, not choreographed but instinctive, steering her toward the bedroom at the end of the hall.
The room was dim. A single lamp on the nightstand threw amber light across a king-sized bed with a dark blue duvet and too many pillows. The window was open a crack, and the air smelled like salt and rain.
Tom pulled the duvet back. The sheets beneath were gray, soft-looking, clean.
Maggie climbed onto the mattress. She moved to the center and turned to face them, sitting back on her heels. Her hair fell over one shoulder. Her nipples were hard.
David stood at the foot of the bed. His cock was fully hard now, arching up toward his stomach. He couldn’t stop looking at her—his wife, naked in another man’s bed, waiting.
Tom stepped up beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
“You good?” Tom asked. Not looking at David. Looking at Maggie.
“I’m good,” she said.
Tom climbed onto the bed. He crawled toward her on his hands and knees, slow, deliberate. When he reached her, he didn’t kiss her mouth. He kissed her neck—open-mouthed, wet, teeth grazing the skin just below her ear.
Maggie’s head fell back. Her eyes closed.
David watched. His heart hammered. His hands hung at his sides, useless for a moment. Then he moved. He climbed onto the bed from the other side. Knelt behind Maggie, his chest against her back, his cock pressed into the crease of her ass.
She leaned into him. Her hand reached back and found his thigh. Squeezed.
Tom’s mouth moved lower. Across her collarbone. Down her sternum. He took one nipple in his mouth and sucked—hard enough that Maggie gasped and arched into him.
David’s hands came up. Cupped her breasts from behind, his palms covering what Tom’s mouth wasn’t. He pinched her nipples between his fingers, rolling them, and she moaned—a low, filthy sound that vibrated through her whole body.
“Fuck,” she breathed. “Both of you. Don’t stop.”
Tom pulled his mouth away. He looked at David over Maggie’s shoulder. A question in his eyes.
David nodded.
Tom shifted down. His hand slid between Maggie’s thighs, fingers finding her cunt, sliding through the wetness there. He pushed two fingers inside her. Curled them.
Maggie cried out. Her hips bucked.
“She’s soaked,” Tom said. Not to David. Just saying it.
“She gets like that,” David said. His voice was hoarse. “When she’s nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Maggie said. “I’m fucking ready.”
Tom laughed. Low. He pulled his fingers out and held them up. They glistened.
“Taste her,” he said to David.
David leaned over Maggie’s shoulder. Took Tom’s fingers into his mouth. Sucked them clean. The taste of her—sharp, musky, familiar—flooded his senses.
“Good,” Tom said. “Now lie down.”
David stretched out on the bed. His head on the pillows. His cock standing up from his groin, thick and leaking.
Tom guided Maggie over him. She straddled David’s hips, her cunt hovering just above his cock. She looked down at him. Her eyes were dark, wild.
“You ready?” she asked.
“Always.”
She reached between them. Guided him inside. Sank down slow—inch by inch, her cunt stretching around him, hot and tight and wet.
David groaned. His hands found her hips. Held on.
Tom moved behind her. He knelt between David’s legs, his knees pressing into the mattress. His cock was hard now, thick and flushed, slick with his own pre-cum.
He reached between Maggie’s legs. His fingers found where David was buried inside her. He pressed them there—just there—feeling the stretch of her cunt around David’s cock.
Maggie shuddered. Her nails dug into David’s chest.
“Oh fuck,” she whispered.
Tom pulled his hand back. Spit on his fingers. Then he pressed one finger against her ass.
Maggie froze. Her eyes flew open.
“That okay?” Tom asked.
She looked down at David. He nodded. Slow.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Do it.”
Tom pushed in—one finger, slow, careful. Maggie’s body clenched around David. She gasped.
“Breathe,” David said. His voice was raw. “Just breathe.”
She breathed. Tom worked his finger in and out, slow, gentle. Then he added a second. She cried out—not pain. Something else.
“Good,” she panted. “That’s good.”
Tom pulled his fingers out. Positioned himself behind her. The head of his cock pressed against her ass.
David felt everything. The weight of her on top of him. The tight clutch of her cunt around his cock. The pressure of Tom’s body behind her, pushing forward.
Tom pushed in slow. Maggie’s mouth opened. Her eyes went wide.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”
She was stretched. Full. Both of them inside her—David in her cunt, Tom in her ass, the thin wall of tissue between them the only thing separating them.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Tom started to thrust.
Slow at first. Shallow. Letting her adjust. Maggie’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her hands were flat on David’s chest, fingers digging in.
David moved beneath her. Small thrusts upward, matching Tom’s rhythm. He could feel Tom through her—the pressure, the heat, the movement. Every time Tom pushed in, David felt it.
“You feel that?” Tom asked. Not to Maggie. To David.
“Yes,” David grunted. “Fuck, yes.”
“That’s me inside her. Right next to you.”
David’s hips bucked. Maggie cried out.
“Harder,” she demanded. “Both of you. Fucking harder.”
Tom fucked her harder. His hips slapped against her ass. His balls swung and hit David’s thigh.
David fucked up into her, matching Tom’s pace. Their rhythm found itself—a brutal, perfect syncopation. Maggie between them, impaled, full, her body nothing but a vessel for their pleasure and her own.
“Fuck,” she screamed. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”
Tom grabbed her hips. Pulled her back onto him. David grabbed her tits. Squeezed hard.
The bed slammed against the wall. The headboard rattled. Sweat dripped from all three of them, soaking the sheets.
“I’m gonna come,” Maggie gasped. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”
“Come,” David said. “Come on both of us.”
Tom fucked her harder. David fucked her harder. The rhythm broke into chaos—grunts, slaps, wet sounds, the smell of sex thick in the air.
Maggie came with a scream that seemed to tear through her whole body. Her cunt clamped down on David. Her ass clenched around Tom. She shook. She sobbed. She said words that weren’t words.
Tom came first. A guttural groan. His hips stuttered. David felt the pulse of him—felt him spill inside her, felt the extra wetness, the heat.
David came a second later. His cock jerked. He spilled inside her—deep, hot, mixing with Tom’s.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then Tom pulled out. Slow. Careful. Maggie gasped at the emptiness.
David was still inside her. Still hard. He held her hips.
“Don’t move yet,” he said.
She didn’t. She lay there, collapsed on his chest, her breath coming in ragged pulls. Sweat cooled on her skin.
Tom sat back on his heels. Watched them. His cock was softening, slick with lube and come.
“That was—” he started. Stopped. Shook his head.
“Yeah,” David said.
Maggie lifted her head. Looked at Tom. Then at David.
“I’m not done,” she said.
David blinked. “What?”
“I said I’m not done.” She pushed herself up. David’s cock slid out of her, wet and shining. She turned to Tom. “You. On your back.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. But he did it. Stretched out on the bed beside David, his head on the pillows.
Maggie moved over him. Straddled his hips. His cock was still half-hard, glistening with her juices.
She guided him inside her. Sank down. Closed her eyes.
“Now,” she said to David. “Get behind me. Fuck my ass while I ride him.”
David didn’t hesitate.
He moved behind her. His cock was slick with her cunt. He pressed it against her ass—still slick from Tom. Pushed in slow.
Maggie moaned. Low. Deep.
David fucked her slow. Tom lay beneath her, his eyes on her face, his hands on her hips. Maggie rode them both—forward onto Tom’s cock, back onto David’s.
The rhythm built again. Fast. Brutal. Perfect.
“Fucking hell,” Tom breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Maggie laughed. Breathless. Wild.
“Maybe,” she said. “But what a way to go.”
David fucked her harder. Tom thrust up into her. She was the center—the axis—the reason.
She came again. Screaming. Her body convulsing between them.
Tom came again. Grunting. Spilling into her.
David held on. He watched his wife come apart between two men. He felt her body clench around him. He felt Tom’s cock pulse against his through the thin wall of her body.
Then he came. Hard. Deep. He spilled into her ass, filling her, claiming her, sharing her.
When it was over, they collapsed into a heap. Tangled limbs. Sweaty skin. Breathless silence.
Maggie lay between them. Her head on Tom’s chest. Her hand in David’s.
Nobody spoke for a long time.
Then Tom chuckled. Low. Rueful.
“Same time next week?” he asked.
Maggie laughed. David shook his head.
“I don’t know,” David said. “I might need more recovery time.”
Maggie turned her head. Looked at him. Her eyes were soft. Warm.
“Pussy,” she said.
David laughed. Real. Full.
“Maybe,” he said. “But you love me anyway.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
Tom reached for the water glass on the nightstand. Drank. Passed it to Maggie. She drank. Passed it to David.
They lay there in the dim light. The window open. The salt air curling in.
The night was still young.
And none of them were done yet.