“You like my body,” he told me, “you like me sweaty, and watching my belly when I do sit-ups.” “Hey,” I said, trying for indignation, “I never told you that.” He laughed again. “Sweetheart, you tell me that every time you can’t look away, and you know it. But”—he laughed again, then said, in that deep growly voice that was his own personal secret weapon—“you really like it when I talk to you, like this.” “No door,” I squeaked.
