Knowing that, then, and knowing his new wife is so horny that when she gets naked he’ll find green skin, why is he talking about interest rates and Department of Health sanitation policies and expanding leverage?

The only leverage he should be thinking about is how to use his hand as a lever to move me around on a mattress.

Hot and bothered, aroused and wet, I use the only ammunition I have.

The Glare of Death.

It doesn’t work. I wish my cat Chuckles were here. He’s better at it.

Hyped up on the Grind It Fresh! lattes Declan had waiting for us on the plane, I’m a ticking time bomb. Frustration and want are building faster than caffeine in my bloodstream. You think guys can have sex brain 100% of the time?

Try being a newlywed wife of a hot billionaire.

If researchers dissected my brain right now, they’d find a clitoris.

A caffeinated clitoris.

Pointed straight at—

“Okay. Bye.”

He’s done! My turn! The Hallelujah Chorus starts to play.

Between my legs.

I know what you’re thinking. We just had tons of sex all morning. More sex than most married couples have in a month, if you believe popular culture news articles. How could I want more?

Look at my husband.

Really look at him.

He’s tall and muscular, with the kind of body that manages to look extraordinary when naked, and yet even better in a suit. Don’t make me choose one over the other. If it were physically possible, I’d have him wear one of his bespoke cashmere suits and be naked simultaneously. Like Schrödinger’s cat in the box, I want quantum physics to bend to my will and make both possible.

At the same time.

That dark, thick hair, his eyebrows strong, framing eyes the color of the hills of Ireland. Broad cheekbones, carved by God, with an intelligence in his expressions that makes it clear that even when we’re old and our bodies have worn to bone and love-worn wrinkles, we will have the pleasure of talking and joking, of being enraptured with the divine interplay of the mind.

Which is great and all, but let’s talk about how smoking hot his bod is now.

How can a man arouse me until I’m buzzing out of my own skin, wet and warm and full of instinct that makes me need his fresh skin? But more important – how did I get so lucky to marry a man who can do this to me?

Declan sucks down his latte in one long ribbon of throat grace, his mouth muscles moving in perfect harmony to execute the consumption. I want that mouth on me. That tongue needs to do curls and swirls and double axel and Biellmann spins on me. That caffeine could be transmitted from his bodily fluids to mine with the right maneuver.

One I’m prepared to initiate ten seconds ago.

And then—wait. Wait. Hold on here. He’s not getting naked.

He is dialing.

“What are you doing?” I ask in Dog Whistle, my involuntary language.

He holds up one finger.

No. One finger won’t do.

I need him to use both hands.

And mouth. And tongue. And one other important appendage. Plus all those muscles, and the sweet tug of his fingers in my hair, and --

“Just another call.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said—”

He turns away. I hear Grace’s name. I hear the words New Zealand and Costa Rica and capitation and border policies and fair trade come out of his mouth.

You know what I want to hear him say?

Ask for it.

Beg me.

Where’s the whipped cream?

Do that thing with your pinkie again.

I love how your nipples touch the mattress when you lie on your back.

(Hey, it’s my fantasy).

Not what he’s currently saying, which sounds like “Put the market analysis for Satan’s civet coffee in Putin’s bank account so we can merge the CPT modifiers with the Euro into a blockchain hedge fund.”

Or something like that.

“DECLAN!” I scream.

He doesn’t even jump.

One finger.

I get one finger.

For the next hour.

I start seven different books on my eReader, finish the New York Times newspaper on board, balance my checkbook, and declutter my email inbox. I had 7,543 unread messages in there, most of them forwards from my mother about how Bill Gates will pay you $5 million if you forward that email.

They date back to 2008.

That’s how bored I am. On my honeymoon.

“Dec?”

I get the finger again.

I give him one of my own.

He’s deep in thought and doesn’t notice.

My phone buzzes.

A text from my mother.

Honeymoon oops babies are the best wedding present for your mother. <3

That’s it.

I call for the flight attendant, who comes to me immediately. Declan looks relieved.

“Yes, Mrs. McCormick?” Her voice is cheerfully professional, using a cultivated tone I’ve come to recognize. Working for the wealthy requires a skill set no one teaches you unless you brush up against this world. I would have gone my entire life not knowing. Grace has the tone. Gerald does, too. It’s an unflappable, responsive way of managing people who don’t have to deal with the same worries that the rest of us juggle.

Mrs. McCormick.

I love that.

“Could you please tell the captain to cut off all cell and internet access?”

“Excuse me?”

Funny how that unflappable tone turns to panic.

“Cut off all cell and internet to the plane. Not, though, you know, the controls to fly the plane,” I add quickly.

“But it’s corporate policy to—”

I point to Dec’s back. “See that hot guy in that beautiful suit?”

She gives me an uncertain look. “Yes?”

“See that unused bedroom?” I nod toward the door.

She blushes. “Yes.”

“I need help getting Hot Guy and Toilet Girl in bed.” And to stop hearing from my mother about oops babies.

To stop hearing from my mother at all.

She looks at the bathroom. “Toilet...girl?”

“I’m Toilet Girl.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand.” Her eyes are beautiful, dark and wide, with more white around the deep, minky irises than usual. Thick eyeliner gives her an Egyptian look, and her cheekbones are wide, well rouged, and apple-sized from smiling.

“Do you understand wanting to have sex on your honeymoon?”