27. Kendall
Chapter 27
Kendall
When I wake up and check my phone, there’s a text from Ashton already waiting for me—an image of his dog, followed by:
We’re very excited to see you tonight.
Shit. Should I back out? He’s not my boyfriend—and can’t be—but having him over with his dog confuses things.
Then again, he said he’d make me dinner. And that there would be a massage.
Feeling like a weak-willed ninny, I reply that I’m also excited… to see Sir Ems.
There.
I eat breakfast and log in to take care of my secret gig. I now need it more than ever to pay my bills. After a trip to the post office, I sit myself in front of the computer and work on VersaWear—until someone rings my doorbell.
What?
I check the time.
Wow. It’s already six in the evening. I got so absorbed in my work that I missed lunch, and most of the day.
“Who is it?” I ask when I get to the door.
There’s a cheerful, yippy woof outside the door.
I grin. “Sir Ems, is that you?”
“Indeed, gentle lady,” Ashton says in a high-pitched voice with a British accent. “’Tis I, Sir Eats-Minced-Meat-a-Lot, at your service. Open posthaste, before my human and I succumb to the evil machinations of the squirrel menace.”
I open the door, and my ovaries get smashed by Ashton’s handsomeness—and the fact that he’s holding a bouquet of roses.
Holy crap. I must’ve grown desensitized to his hotness after spending so much time together on the island, but after this short break, the full force of his beauty is hitting me like a freight train. That golden hair, that athletic physique, those gorgeously chiseled features…
“Here.” He hands me the flowers and plants a kiss on my lips, one that makes my blood pressure spike and my panties dampen.
A small whine brings my attention to the dog, and I look down, cocking my head.
“Is he smiling?” I ask Ashton.
“It’s a quirk of this breed,” he answers. “And sure, I choose to think that he’s smiling.”
Sir Ems wags his tail as if to confirm his cheerful mood.
“Well,” I say. “Come in.”
I was talking to Ashton, of course, but Sir Ems is the first to react: he trots regally inside, sniffing everything on his way.
“He won’t cause mischief,” Ashton says, noticing my worried expression.
A concerned bark rings out from the living room, contradicting Ashton’s words.
Frowning, Ashton goes in—and starts cracking up.
I follow them and see why.
Sir Ems is barking at the sousaphone on display.
“Buddy, that’s just a musical instrument,” Ashton says soothingly.
Sir Ems pauses the barking but looks at the sousaphone distrustfully and then growls at it.
“Did you just get upset at your own refection?” Ashton asks.
Sir Ems looks at the shiny sousaphone again, then at his human, then back at the sousaphone, then back at Ashton.
Finally, the hackles on the back of the dog’s neck relax, and the smile-like expression comes back, as does the tail wag.
Just then, someone rings the doorbell, and Sir Ems runs over to the door, barking up another storm.
I glance at Ashton. “No mischief?”
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
“It’s fine. I kind of like it.” Though I considered myself as more of a dog person, that was all theory. Now I know for a fact that I like dogs. Or at least corgis.
“We should go get that,” Ashton says. “It’s probably the groceries I ordered.”
Ah. By the time I open the door, the delivery person has left—which instantly calms Sir Ems.
Ashton picks up the shopping bags and brings them to the kitchen.
“How do you feel about tacos?” he asks when I join him.
Upon hearing the word “tacos,” Sir Ems almost jumps in joy.
“I was actually asking Kendall,” Ashton tells the dog. “But you’re going to get one, for sure.”
“What kind of tacos?” I ask.
Given what might happen after, I’m not sure I want to eat something heavy, like pork.
“Roasted cauliflower, scallops, and shiitake mushrooms,” Ashton says. “With my signature guacamole.”
My stupid stomach rumbles.
Ashton grins.
“I skipped lunch,” I explain defensively.
“Oh?” He takes out a pack of soft tortillas and crunchy taco shells. “Why?”
I explain how I got into a flow while working.
“That’s great,” he says. “Will you show me what you’ve got so far over dinner?”
“Sure.” I get my laptop and then watch in hungry fascination as he fries the shiitake, sears the scallops, and assembles the tacos with the careful expertise of a chef in a Michelin-star restaurant.
When I taste the result, I moan in pleasure. “This is insane,” I say after I swallow. “I don’t think you’re as good at training people as you are at this.”
“That’s not fair.” He gives Sir Ems a taco. “You didn’t give me a chance to train you.”
“I guess.” I taste the taco once again—and almost bite my tongue.
“Okay. Show me what you’ve been working on.” He gestures at the laptop.
So I do, starting with the initial sketches I created earlier in the day and then going into the preliminary technical designs.
“What’s next?” he asks.
“After I finish the tech packs, I’ll need to source fabrics and materials.”
“How long will the whole thing take?”
I shrug. “Depends what you mean by that. Getting to the sampling stage would usually take several weeks or longer, but I might be able to cut that down drastically if I live and breathe this project. But if you’re talking about getting something into production and then stores, that will take much, much longer, so I won’t even think about that.”
He asks for more details, and like before, he has some good ideas, especially for someone who didn’t go to a design school.
“I went to business school,” he reminds me when I question him about that. “I didn’t finish, but I learned enough. Not to mention, my own business is going well.”
“Merely well. Understatement much?”
“I’m just saying that if you need help with the entrepreneurial aspects of this endeavor, I’d be happy to assist.”
That assumes he’ll be around when such skills will be necessary, but I dare not rely on that. Not when we’re basically nemeses with benefits… who, I guess, aren’t all that much at odds with each other anymore.
“Should I make dessert?” Ashton asks.
I shake my head. “Too full. I could really use a massage, though. My neck is stiff from working all day.”
“Hold on.” He cleans up the kitchen and sticks the plates into the dishwasher before turning back to me. “Should we go to the bedroom?”
My heart rate spikes. Trying to play it cool, I glance at the dog. “Is he coming with?”
“No. But if you have a spare pillow, or don’t mind putting a couch cushion on the floor, he’d enjoy using that as a bed.”
After a moment of thought, I designate a cushion for Sir Ems, then drag Ashton into the bedroom and kiss him the way I’ve wanted to from the moment he arrived.
His smile is smug as we separate. “So… is ‘massage’ a new euphemism for fucking?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re going to do both: massage me and then fuck me.”
He rubs his hands together. “Strip and lie down on your stomach.”
I wake up in Ashton’s arms, feeling obscenely content.
“Breakfast?” he murmurs, kissing my neck. “I can whip up the crepes that I was going to make last night for dessert.”
It’s tempting, but… “Thank you, but I’ll just have cereal in front of my computer. Work is calling. And you need to go.”
“That’s dedication.” He sits up. “What are we doing tonight?”
“The birthday party,” I remind him. “I’ll text you the details.”
“Ah. Right.” He stands up, and he’s either oblivious to the fact that he’s naked, or he’s trying to make me horny on purpose. Again.
When we come out of the bedroom, Sir Ems is already waiting, tail wagging and smile contagious.
“Mind if I give him a leftover taco?” Ashton asks.
“You cooked it and brought the ingredients over,” I remind him.
Nodding, Ashton swings by the fridge and gives the food to the dog—who proceeds to set a world record for wolfing down a taco.
“All right.” Ashton leashes his best friend and walks over to the door. “See you later.”
Before my lips can form the word “goodbye,” Ashton claims them in a scorching kiss that makes me rethink the whole “I need to work” business. Sadly, I don’t get a chance to voice anything out loud because by the time I’ve caught my breath, Ashton has already left.
Nothing left to do but pull myself together, grab that boring cereal, and start working.
My phone rings.
I frown at it. Given the time, I’ve clearly lost myself in design again, to the tune of several hours. More importantly, the caller ID states “Mr. Boss.”
“Hello?” I say, but what I really mean is: “This had better be important.”
“Okay, you win,” Tierre says in that voice he uses when he wants to sound compassionate, though it really comes across as condescending.
“Huh?”
“Yes, yes. I can be merciful,” Tierre continues in that same tone. “If you want it back so bad, you can have it.”
I glare at the phone. “Is this a butt dial?”
“Butt…” Tierre enunciates the word like he’s savoring it. “What are you talking about?”
“Right back at you,” I snap. “And hurry, I’m kind of busy.”
He sucks in a breath. “How dare you? I call you to offer your job back, and you’re being rude to me?”
“Ah. I get it now. How many assistants have quit on you so far?”
“My generous offer is withdrawn,” he says but, tellingly, doesn’t hang up. “You remain fired.”
“Got it. I guess it works out because I’m out of the assistant business now, anyway.”
With that, I hang up before I can say something I might later regret.
Realizing my heart is racing, I take a few calming breaths.
Did I just make a mistake?
No. I love designing, and I didn’t like ninety percent of the menial tasks I had to do for Tierre.
In hindsight, I should’ve quit a year ago. Maybe even earlier.
A text from Ashton arrives in that moment, asking where and when we’re meeting. I reply, set an alarm, gobble down leftover tacos, and dive back into work.
The Global Grub Grotto is a restaurant that claims to specialize in delicacies from around the world, but in reality, it’s known as the place where you can get the weirdest dishes in the city. The owner, Chef Lars, claims he tailors to the so-called adventurous eaters like my brother, but if you ask me, someone has simply watched Fear Factor one too many times.
As soon as I walk in, I smell something odd and unappetizing—with the most generous interpretation being that the restaurant has recently used a new and very strong cleaning product.
No. Must not think in that direction. It’s Cameron’s birthday, and the last thing I want to do is yuck his yum.
“Are you here for the private event?” asks the hostess.
“Yes. Birthday.” As if to prove it, I display my wrapped gift—a phone case I personally created for him from denim, canvas, and quilted cotton.
“And which of the menus are you going to be ordering from?” she asks. “Basic or adventurous?”
I sigh. “Basic, please.”
She hands me the menu in question with a slight wrinkle of her nose. “Right this way.”
She leads me past a display of desserts that are made to look like regular, everyday objects and into a big room with tables filled with people—some very familiar to me, like Mom and Dad, and some I’ve only seen at Cameron’s other birthdays.
“Ken-doll!” my father shouts. “Come, we saved you a seat.”
Shit. My brother is sitting with them also, which means I can’t spare Ashton from a full-on “meet the parents” experience.
Forcing a smile to my lips, I kiss everyone and wish Cameron a happy birthday before handing him his gift.
“Thanks, sis.” He unwraps the case, and everyone oohs and aahs as my brother ceremoniously takes out his phone and replaces his generic case with my creation.
“What do you think?” Dad asks him.
“Love it,” Cameron says. Turning my way, he kisses my cheek. “Thanks again.”
“So…” Mom looks around. “Where is your boyfriend?”
I grab a glass of water and take a big swig. “For the love of Manolo Blahniks, please, pretty please, don’t call him that when he shows up. He’s not my boyfriend and never will be. He’s only here because Cameron wanted to talk shop with him today. That’s all. He’s even bringing a co-worker—who, before you ask, also isn’t my boyfriend.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Mom says.
Cameron looks at the entrance. “Is that him?”
I turn. Tall, blond, ridiculously handsome, and impeccably dressed—check, check, check, and check. “Yeah,” I manage to say in a casual tone, as though my heart isn’t suddenly dancing a jig in my chest.
“And who is that with him?” my brother asks, his voice sounding odd. “Is it his actual girlfriend?”
Great question because the beautiful blonde who walks in with Ashton is not acting like an employee at all. For starters, she punches Ashton’s shoulder and rolls her eyes at something he says. Ashton then offers her his arm, and she places her slender hand through the crook of his elbow before they walk inside.
Finally—and most telling of all—there’s something protective about the way he stares down any man who goggles at his… whoever she is.
And no, I don’t want to rip her pretty hair out. At all.
“If that guy isn’t your boyfriend, why do you look so jealous?” Mom asks pointedly.
“I do not. I’m just surprised, is all. When he said he was bringing his CTO, I imagined a dorky dude, not a fashion model.”
And that surprise is definitely what’s responsible for the bizarre tightness in my chest.
“Isn’t that sexist?” Dad asks.
“Sure is,” Mom replies. “But in Kendall’s defense, women can get very catty when jealous.”
How is that a defense? And… isn’t that even more sexist than what I said?
“Hi,” Ashton says as he and the model reach our table.
I leap to my feet and do my best to act like a normal human being. “Ashton, meet Mom, Dad, and my brother, Cameron.”
“Hello, Kendall’s dad.” Ashton shakes Dad’s hand. “And mom.” He kisses her on the cheek—and she looks like her menopause has unpaused.
“Happy birthday, Cameron.” He shakes my brother’s hand and hands him a wrapped box.
“Thanks.” My brother sets his gift on a nearby table and then nods at the model. “Will you introduce us to your… plus one?”
“Ah. Right,” Ashton says. “This is my CTO, Jordan.”
“Hi, all,” Jordan says and bats her lashes at everyone prettily. “I’m also this knucklehead’s sister—in case you’re wondering about the resemblance.”
I’m so relieved I drop into my seat, and to my chagrin, my family members all sneak knowing looks at me.
“I can see the resemblance now that I know to look for it,” I say, and it’s true. And—maybe relatedly—I suddenly like Jordan, a lot, and not just because of the teasing way she handles Ashton.
It’s something about the intelligence in her eyes. Or her smile. Which, come to think of it, is a lot like her brother’s.
“I don’t see any resemblance,” Cameron says. “I think you both look unique.”
Uh-oh. I take out my phone and write a quick text to my brother:
Don’t even think about it. Henceforth, Jordan is officially covered by the pact.
Hearing his phone ding, Cameron sneaks a glance and looks very disappointed by my proclamation—which means it was necessary.
A waiter stops by and asks if we’re ready to order.
“Give us a minute,” Dad tells him.
Everyone studies their respective menus. Even on the so-called basic menu, the most palatable item I can find is haggis—a Scottish dish usually made from sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs, which are mixed with oats and spices before getting cooked in the sheep’s stomach. Apparently, the ban on importing this item was recently lifted, and thus it’s on the menu here.
Ashton, who seems to be holding the adventurous menu, orders tacos with escamoles. I don’t ask him to explain what that is.
Mom chooses a dish that features a century egg, and Dad gets an ominous-sounding black pudding. Both are on the basic menu, so I happen to know one is an egg that’s been preserved to the point where the yolk has become green and the whites brown, and the other is—as the name hints at—blood mixed with oats.
“Is the kiviak imported or made locally?” Jordan asks and receives an approving look from my brother.
“Imported,” the waiter says. “The chef has a relationship with the Inughuit.”
“I’ll have that,” Jordan says.
“And I’ll have the hákarl,” my brother says.
The waiter leaves, and everyone discusses what their choice entails, though I kind of wish that they wouldn’t. Kiviak turns out to be a bunch of small birds that have been fermented inside a seal carcass—because, of course—and hákarl is also a fermented treat, in this case shark meat that has been buried in gravelly sand and then hung to dry for several months. Oh, and the fun doesn’t end there.
Escamoles is ant larvae.
“So, Ashton,” Dad says when the excitement about our dishes subsides. “How did you and our daughter meet?”
“At the gym,” he says. “I tried to train her, but she wasn’t having it.”
Every traitor from my family nods.
“Even when she was a baby, she didn’t like to follow instructions,” Mom says.
“Teaching her to ride a bike was the most trying time of my life,” Dad says solemnly. “That and taking her to the dentist for the first time.”
“At least you didn’t try to teach her to play chess,” my brother chimes in. “That was actual torture.”
“Enough.” I narrow my eyes at each of them. “We’re changing the topic.”
“What about you two?” Ashton asks my parents. “How did you meet?”
Oh, boy. I’ve never seen a worse case of “be careful what you wish for.”
“You could say she was also a client of mine,” Dad says with a grin.
Ashton arches an eyebrow while my brother and I exchange a “is this happening again?” look.
“My husband is a proctologist,” Mom says gleefully.
Dad nods. “It’s true. I had to study a long time to deal with assholes for a living.”
Yep. Just like every other time this comes up.
“In fact,” Mom continues, “it’s safe to say we met after he saved my ass—literally.”
Of course, she’d say that again. And he will say?—
“And what an ass it was,” Dad replies as expected. “A m-ass-terpiece.”
I sigh. I know what’s coming next, and how futile it would be to try and stop them.
“Have you guys ever heard proctologist jokes?” Mom asks.
A grinning Ashton shakes his head, as does his sister.
“Well then,” my dad says. “I’ll rectify that situation right now.”
I groan, and Cameron rolls his eyes.
“Did you know that mine was the first profession to go digital?” Dad asks.
Ashton and his sister chuckle politely.
“Tell them what you’d say to a pirate, if you met one,” Mom urges.
“Show me your booty,” Dad says.
That one is new, but that doesn’t make it good.
“Now tell them the difference between an accountant and a proctologist,” Mom suggests.
Dad grins devilishly. “An accountant stares at spreadsheets while I stare at spread cheeks.”
Cameron slowly shakes his head, and I don’t get why he doesn’t play the birthday card to put an end to this.
“You know what they call a sarcastic proctologist?” Mom asks.
“A smart-ass doctor,” Dad replies.
Looking uncomfortable, Jordan and Ashton chuckle again. I bet they’re wondering how many more of these there are—and the answer is: an infinite amount.
“How is a chiropractor different from a proctologist?” Mom asks.
“You go to the first to crack your finger,” Dad says with a snort. “And the other if you need your crack fingered.”
I blow out a breath.
Unperturbed, Mom tells them what Dad says when he walks into a bar: “Is this stool taken?” She then asks what his favorite medicine and food are, but to my huge relief, that is when our orders arrive and interrupt the answer, which happens to be ass-pirin and poo-nut butt-er, respectively.
When the waiters leave, I glance at Cameron’s plate, which seems to be where the odd smell is coming from.
“Yeah, I know,” my brother says. “The one problem with this dish is the ammonia smell.” He puts a piece of fermented shark into his mouth and chews with clear relish. “The taste is worth it, I promise you.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say and sample my own dish.
Interesting. It’s rich, meaty, and nutty, with an earthy aftertaste. Reminiscent of liver paté and meatloaf.
Ashton crunches into his taco and seems to enjoy it. Mom and Dad sing praises to their choices as well, and even Jordan seems to like her dish.
As much as it pains me to admit it—and despite the idea being completely out of the question—maybe she and Cameron would make a suitable match after all. In a parallel universe. Where she definitely isn’t Ashton’s sister.
“Back to jokes?” Mom suggests when the edge of everyone’s hunger is blunted.
“Sorry, no,” Cameron says. “I need to discuss some business with Ashton and Jordan.”
“Boo,” Mom says. “Work and birthdays don’t mix.”
“Yeah,” Dad says. “You don’t see me asking anyone to take off their pants.”
Cameron frowns. “I thought everyone promised not to call me a workaholic today, of all days.”
“Sorry,” Mom and Dad say in unison.
“I want to go choose a dessert,” Mom says. “They have a big display case of them.”
“Great idea,” Dad says. “I’ll join you.”
With that, they leave, which seems to be all the invitation Ashton needs to start talking about his app. Soon, he, Jordan, and Cameron seem to be speaking a foreign language, throwing out terms like “real-time suggesting,” “natural-language processing,” and “food-pairing algorithms.”
“It sounds like you can really help us,” Jordan finally says just as Mom and Dad return.
Cameron nods. “Sounds like it. Give me your email, and I’ll have my assistant set up a meeting so we can discuss this in greater detail.”
“Dessert picked,” Mom announces as Jordan gives Cameron her card. “I’m going to order the one that looks like a little purse.”
“And I’m getting the one that looks like a burger,” Dad says. Looking at his half-eaten black pudding, he adds, “I’m actually craving a burger now.”
“Did you like your dish?” Cameron asks Jordan.
“Yeah,” she says. “But it makes me wonder—who first thought of fermenting these birds? And why?”
That’s what she wonders? I’m curious as to who thought of stuffing them into the skin of a seal, and what did that seal do to deserve it? Not hold a ball on his nose long enough?
“Forget birds,” Ashton says. “How did someone come up with alcohol?”
Jordan grins. “Someone went, ‘Here are some grapes. Let’s have them spoil and drink that . Maybe something good will happen.’”
“Cheese is weird too,” Cameron chimes in. “Here’s some curdled milk. Tastes awful. Let’s wait longer and see what happens.”
“In general, I think whoever came up with the idea of drinking milk must’ve been a pervert,” Dad says. “I mean, we take it for granted now, but someone had at some point looked at a cow and thought: ‘I want to suck on those teats.’”
“Udders,” Mom corrects him. “And don’t forget that humans were lactose intolerant for a lot of our history, so perverts kept trying to drink milk until some lucky one had the mutation that let him digest it, and then he—because it must have been a man—passed the milk-drinking gene on.”
“I think fermentation is still stranger,” I say. “Have you ever seen how kombucha is made? My boss made me make it once, and there’s a jellyfish-like thing involved.”
“It’s not a jellyfish. It’s a Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast, or SCOBY,” Cameron says. “And it’s edible.”
“It didn’t look edible,” I say. At least no more so than a jellyfish, which is on the menu here, so there’s that.
“Many things become edible if you’re brave enough,” Jordan says sagely.
“But you don’t need to be particularly brave to eat SCOBY,” Cameron replies. “I’ve eaten candy made from it. And jerky. All tasted fine.”
I remind myself of today’s yuck yum mantra and ponder out loud how the first SCOBY came to be.
Cameron shrugs. “Someone in ancient China left very sweet tea sitting out, some yeast and bacteria got into it and ate all the sugar, and then someone drank the result.”
The waiter shows up and asks everyone if we want dessert.
Mom and Dad order while the rest of us tell him to come back in a couple of minutes, so we can go check out the display.
On the way to the dessert, Ashton leans in and whispers, “I love your parents.”
“Yeah,” Jordan says. “I do too.”
“You do?” Cameron looks from brother to sister like they’ve just sprouted proctologists from their butts.
“Oh, yeah,” Ashton says. “If you don’t see it, you don’t know how lucky you have it.”
Jordan nods. “You can just tell they love each other very much. Super adorable.”
“I guess you’re right,” I say.
My parents do love each other. Always have, despite some people thinking that Mom just wanted Dad for his money. If she were a gold-digger, she would’ve left him after the malpractice suit that so drastically changed their financial situation, but she stuck with him and is actually helping him get back on his feet.
Note to self: avoid getting into that topic because Dad doesn’t mind talking about it—probably so he can joke that when it comes to that lawsuit, assholes in both senses of the word were involved. More importantly, if Ashton learns that my parents are not helping me financially, he may wonder how I’ll pay the bills now that I’m unemployed—which gets much too close to my secret project. Relatedly, I also need to make sure Ashton doesn’t mention me losing my job to my family. I haven’t told them because, again, they’ll wonder how I’ll pay my bills.
“I’m getting the Rubik’s Cube-shaped one,” Jordan says.
I scan the display. “I like the sponge cake.” One made to look like a kitchen sponge, of course.
“I’m still pretty hungry,” Ashton says. “I think I want the spaghetti with meatballs.”
I grin. The version he’s getting uses buttercream for spaghetti, chocolate truffles for meatballs, and strawberry cream as sauce. “Can I try it?” I ask.
“We should all try each other’s desserts,” Jordan suggests.
“In that case, I’ll take the one that looks like a book,” I say. “So I’ll have something to share.”
When we return to the table, the conversation turns to food and stays that way until the end—because I do my best to keep it there and not on my employment situation.
Afterward, Ashton, Cameron, and Dad fight over the check until my brother plays the birthday card, which makes the others surrender.
“It was very nice meeting you,” Ashton tells my parents, and I know he means it.
“Yeah,” his sister says. “I’ve never had this much fun at a business meeting before.”
“Thank you for coming,” Cameron says. “I liked having a business meeting during my birthday party. I think I’ll make it a new tradition.”
My parents and I boo this last part, but our hearts aren’t in it.
“Would you like to share a cab?” Ashton asks me.
The ears of my whole family perk up at this.
“Makes sense,” I say. “We live two blocks away from each other.” More like thirty-six, but who’s counting?
“Right,” Ashton says, eyes gleaming. “You’re basically the girl next door.”
My brother turns to Jordan. “Where do you live?”
“Uptown,” she says vaguely.
“I’m taking my parents to Connecticut,” he says. “I can drop you off on the way.”
Damn it. Didn’t he read my text?
“No, thank you,” she says. “I’m meeting some friends for drinks.”
If my brother is disappointed, he hides it well.
“Okay,” Ashton says. “Let’s go… neighbor.”
He leads me out, and we jump into a cab.
“Your place or mine?” he asks. “Not that it matters, given that we practically live in the same building.”
“Mine,” I say. “And thanks for not putting me on the spot.”
“No problem.” He texts the dog sitter and then lays a hand on my thigh.
I tell the cab driver our destination, and as we get going, Ashton gives me a deep, hungry kiss—one that culminates in multiple orgasms when we finally get to my place.