I slid my hands up her back, soothing her, easing her back to earth.

She opened her eyes again, after a few moments, and gave me a wicked smile.

Then she started moving again.

This time I had no reason to hold off, and couldn’t have even if I tried. My fingers dug into her hips as I slammed against her with every thrust. She was soft, wet, and melting around me, and even with the condom it was the best sex of my life.

Each time I was with her was better than the last. Eventually it would probably kill me.

With a groan, I let go.

Afterward, when we had both cleaned up and climbed back into bed, with her head pillowed on my chest and my arm around her shoulders, she said, “That was really nice.”

“Oh?” I asked, feeling pleased with myself. Nice was good. Mind-blowing would be have been better, and holy shit I thought I saw God would have been the best of all, but I would settle for what I could get.

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, I like the kinky stuff, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes it’s nice to just, you know. Have sex.”

“Sweetheart, billionaires don’t have sex,” I said. “We make love.”

She laughed and slapped me lightly on the stomach, and then walked her fingers down to toy with the thatch of hair below my navel. “You’re funny,” she said. “And you’re a lot nicer than I thought you were.”

“I’m not nice,” I said. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Yeah, I know. You’re really tough. You’re all man. You make your underlings cry.” She pushed herself up on one elbow, gazing down at me. “I liked the roses.” She bent to kiss me. “And the peonies.” Another kiss. “And the tulips.”

“I’ll buy you all the flowers you want,” I said, feeling drunk on her presence. “Gladioli. Lilacs. Poppies.”

“How about you just take me to a movie?” she asked.

I raised my eyebrows. “You want to go to the movies.”

She nodded.

“Right now?”

She nodded again.

“Okay,” I said. “Sure. Why the hell not?”

* * *

In the sober light of Monday morning, I started having second thoughts.

I went to work as usual, and even got a decent start on reviewing the latest quarterly earnings projections, but by mid-morning I found myself searching online for the perfect flowers to send to Sasha: elegant yet understated, unusual without being ostentatious. I finally settled on hydrangeas, and arranged to have them delivered to her apartment that afternoon.

I got off the phone with the florist, feeling pleased with myself, and it struck me, then, like a bolt from the blue. I had known this girl for all of two weeks—two weeks and a few days—and there I was, mooning over her like a lovesick adolescent, sending her flowers from work, and thinking about when I would get to see her next.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I didn’t moon. I didn’t waste time trying to get women to like me. They liked me or they didn’t, and most of them were savvy enough to like me; but either way, I never devoted any attention to it.

Something about Sasha had made me lose my goddamn mind.

I thought about calling the florist to cancel my order, but that would have been truly pathetic. Better to just let this be the last delivery. I had apologized. I had groveled enough. I shouldn’t have cared if she forgave me. If she thought I was an asshole—well, so fucking what? I didn’t need to impress her. I didn’t owe her anything. I hadn’t made her any promises.

I was thick in the midst of those dark thoughts when my phone buzzed with a text message from one of my business school “buddies,” Trevor. He was a world-class cretin: a womanizer, probably racist, and not particularly bright—but he certainly knew how to party. I still saw him and the rest of the Columbia crew every few weeks, and it was always a good time, although I could have done without the resultant hangovers.

Trevor wanted to go out that night: drinks at some new hotspot downtown. Sure. Why the hell not. I replied, What time?

In the end, I got caught up at work and arrived half an hour late. By that time, Trevor and the rest of them were three drinks in, already a little rowdy. “Alexander!” one of them bellowed as I walked toward their table in the back of the bar. In the dim lighting, I wasn’t entirely sure who it was, but it didn’t entirely matter. Men drinking, I had found, usually became an indistinguishable mass, full of lust and stupidity. I was proud to count myself among them.

I took a seat in the one empty chair at the table. “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Work.”

Trevor, beside me, slapped my back. “Work blows!” he said. “Have a drink!”

“Trevor, my friend,” I said, “that is a truly excellent idea.”

I downed three shots in quick succession, enough to establish the beginnings of a healthy buzz. Around me, conversation veered from the offensive to the absurd. Trevor claimed he had fucked a midget; one of the other guys pointed out that midget was considered offensive; Trevor told him to quit being a politically correct pussy. I rolled my eyes and signaled the waitress for another drink. Ten minutes around Trevor never failed to remind me why ten minutes was more than enough.

The waitress brought me my drink, a middling whiskey, and I sipped at it and looked around the table. Colin, sitting across from me, was staring down at his beer, a look on his face like someone had just run over his dog. I leaned toward him and said, half-shouting to hear myself over the sound system, “Rough day?”

He glanced up at me, realized who had spoken to him, and forced a smile. “Sorry. Girl problems. I don’t mean to be a wet blanket.”

I liked Colin. He was by far my favorite of the Columbia morons, and the only one I thought I might have been actual friends with had we met in a different context. And so, even though I didn’t particularly care about his girl problems, I got up and went around to the other side of the table, told Jim to switch with me, sat down beside Colin and said, “I intend to get quite drunk tonight, so if you’d like to talk about your feelings, there’s a fairly good chance I won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

He smiled again, and this time it was closer to being an actual smile instead of a pitiful grimace. “The state of American masculinity: emotions are only acceptable under the pretense of alcoholism.”