I check Lyla out for the fifth time. She’s wearing a short black romper. A really short black romper. Jesus. She can wear whatever she wants, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep myself in check. As it is, I haven’t been able to stop replaying how she looked when she came on my fingers. How she felt. “What’s the plan?” I ask as I comb my fingers through my damp hair.
