And want more.

“This is the first time.”

“The first time you’ve slept with a woman?” she jokes. “I’m honored.”

“The first time I’ve slept over.”

“Ever?” Her eyes are intense, asking questions she can’t ask with words.

“Since their mother and I divorced, yes.”

Chloe blinks, just enough times for me to tell she’s processing the detail, trying to glean meaning. There’s plenty to find.

I kiss her, our mouths soft and urgent, and she opens her legs, wrapping them around me, her intent clear. I feel like I’m wearing new skin, trying it out for the first time, finding it’s a better fit than the old one.

And feeling every sensation with an acuity that is like being reborn.

Last night was the frenzied rush to taste and tease, to conquer new territory, to try a sample to see what we liked. This morning is slower, more sensual, like a wine tasting where the goal isn’t to get drunk.

It’s to swirl the glass, inhale deeply, find exactly which bouquet is most appealing.

And oh, the mouthfeel.

I’m not going to miss a single drop.

Sex with Chloe was hot and quick the first time, the frantic rush that comes from wanting to try each other out, from the anticipation that fires the blood and makes everything urgent.

This time, we’re more deliberate, and as I kiss my way down her torso, I find myself tasting her sweetness for breakfast, the small sounds of pleasure she makes helping to clear my mind, pushing my body to the limit. Chloe is a delight in bed, her body mine to explore, yet she surprises me now, pulling me up.

“I want you,” she gasps, hands wrapping around my ribs as I glide up her body, our kiss twinned with my entering her, her legs wrapping around me as if we planned this all long ago and are executing it in perfect synchrony.

Which is what happens minutes later when we come together, my face buried in her neck, her long legs impossibly twisted around my back, her warm and melting center encasing me, my breath unsteady and my body more at ease touching hers than I’ve felt in years.

“Nice,” she murmurs, “now I understand why they call you Focus Man at work.”

As I chuckle, she reaches up to cradle my jaw in both hands, giving me a smoldering kiss that tells me we’re not done yet.

Thank God.

The ringtone for the song It’s Raining Men jingles from the floor.

“I know that’s not my phone,” I mutter, my mouth now full of sweet nipple.

“Henry likes to change my ringtone,” she groans. “But no one actually dials my phone unless the spa’s on fire,” Chloe says, twisting out from under me, leaving me throbbing and slightly chilled as cold air replaces warm woman.

She picks up the phone. “Private number.”

“Telemarketer?” I say hopefully.

She shrugs and answers. “Hello? Yes, this is Chloe. Excuse me?” Her eyes look like she’s wearing coke-bottle glasses as Chloe turns to me, gloriously nude, one hip jutting out as her arm extends to me, phone in hand, holding it like it’s a live, poisonous snake.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s...your...daughter.” Chloe gently places the phone in my hand and steps back, turning away, snickering.

“What? My what?”

“DADDY!” Elodie screeches from Chloe’s phone. “You really are there with her!”

This is not happening.

Red rage pumps through me, replacing desire, a poor substitute for passion, but it will have to do for now.

“You did not call me on Chloe’s cell phone,” I grind out, trying not to explode with expletives the kids have only heard from my mouth when I banged something.

Other than a woman.

“I logged in to the family cell plan and found her number on your line, because I had to make sure you’re safe, Daddy!”

Chloe is now wheezing with laughter, hugging a pillow. Our eyes meet and she sobers up suddenly, her face slack with surprise.

“I’ll go make coffee,” she whispers, leaving the room, her ass the gift that keeps on giving.

“YOU!” I bellow into the phone.

“Daddy?” Elodie replies in a small, soft voice.

“I cannot believe you did this, Elodie Laurence Grafton! My private life is mine. MINE!” I can feel the bed shake as I shout, a cat jumping off a chair in the corner and shooting out of the room, my own voice gaining volume as my ire pours out of me.

“But—”

“I am speechless! My private life is off limits. Period. Do not ever do this to me again. Are we clear.” It’s not a question.

“If you were speechless, you wouldn’t be yelling at me,” she whispers.

“And I am yelling at you, so what does that tell you?”

“But Daddy, I thought you were—” She’s crying, her voice hitched.

Good.

She should cry.

“Don’t even try it. Once I hung up on you the first time, that was it. Done. End of discussion, and now I’m ending this discussion.”

Click.

I felt passion when I woke up.

Then rage, followed by boiling misery.

Trying on a suit of guilt for size now.

A suit that would fit the Incredible Hulk.

“That sounded intense,” Chloe says from the other room. “Coffee’s brewing. I’ll bring some back in on a tray.”

And embarrassment joins the soup of emotions.

I am naked in Chloe’s bedroom. My co-worker’s bed. My child just tracked me down via my bedmate’s cell phone to chew me out for not coming home last night.

I am pretty sure that’s a Dan Savage, Dear Abby and Maury Povich event rolled into one.

“Damn!” I shout into a pillow, pitching it across the room, knocking over a towel rack. It clatters to the floor with an anemic series of clicks.

Futile.

“I never liked that accessory anyhow. It falls over every time the cat sneezes,” Chloe says with an overly-bright smile, watching me like one would watch a staggering raccoon in the alley. I don’t blame her.

I’m feeling pretty damn rabid.

Flashing her a grateful, but tight, smile, I take the coffee from her extended hand, forcing myself to sip the scalding liquid just to buy some time.

Men’s Health magazine never has articles on how to handle this kind of mess.