Free If the Shoe Fits by Megan Mulry

inside her again. The undeniable craving welled up. For a split second, he wondered again how she could be so unaccustomed to the joys of her own body. And then he was so close to his own release, and she to hers, that the thought—and the subsequent memory of it—splintered into an infinite fractal cascade of shared ecstasy. She was half breathing, half moaning when he finally pulled away from her satiated body. He lay there for a few minutes, lost in a place of bliss… thoughtless yet meaningful bliss.
    She had curled up next to him and was already dozing off.
    Out.
    He slipped off the bed and went into the bathroom for a few minutes. When he returned to her, he tenderly removed the mile-high suede boots and set them on the floor. Then he pulled the sheets back and tucked Sarah and then himself into the huge hotel bed. Sarah, already asleep, turned away from the warmth of Devon’s body, then shimmied back to rub the length of her back and derriere against his stomach and pelvis in a slinky, selfish, catlike gesture.
    For the second time that day, Devon realized he had stopped breathing. He made the requisite effort to get oxygen into and out of his malfunctioning lungs, overly conscious of the basic act of inhaling. As he drifted off to sleep, he pondered whether or not oxygen was, in fact, necessary when you had to choose between that or sex with Sarah James as the alternative.

Chapter 5
    Sarah woke the next morning surprisingly rested. She turned to look over her shoulder and saw Devon asleep in a position of sheer abandon: one arm thrown over his head, the other flung across her hip; his hair a tousled, sexy mess of light honey-brown strands falling across one eye; his lips, almost smiling even in sleep, full and slightly parted. She wallowed for a moment in the surreal fantasy that waking up next to him was a totally common, natural turn of events. He would make the coffee, pick up the newspaper off the front porch; she would make breakfast and set the table; they would spend the day on the couch swapping sections of the New York Times .
    Then Sarah shook her head and laughed quietly at the absurdity. She didn’t even know how to boil water… and where exactly was this breakfast table one spoke of… and an actual newspaper, made of paper? She had never had a newspaper delivered anywhere, much less a paper one on a porch. Her iPad was a streaming newsreel 24/7… why would she need more news on Sunday? What was the point?
    Well, now she was starting to imagine what the point was… kind of a sweet, romantic point. She almost reached out to touch the strong line of Devon’s cheekbone, then thought better of it. This train was leaving the station and there was no point dragging out the inevitable departure. She slid out of the bed as gently as possible, so as not to disturb him, and quietly closed the door behind her as she went into the bathroom.
    Twenty minutes later, she was showered and dressed.
    Twenty minutes after that, she was totally packed, sitting on top of one of her grandmother’s vintage Louis Vuitton steamer trunks and ready to dry her hair. She hesitated, worrying that the high-pitched squeal of the blow-dryer would wake him.
    Oh well, he had to wake up at some point. And she had to skedaddle. She gave her hair the full treatment, making it razor straight, and put on a light foundation, a few quick strokes of mascara, and lip gloss.
    She needn’t have worried overmuch about the noise, since apparently Devon slept through earthquakes. According to Heyworth family lore, on a trip to San Francisco, he had, quite literally, slept through seismic activity. She called the bellman from the phone in the bathroom and asked for assistance with her luggage, shoving it out into the hall so he wouldn’t have to come in and see her lover (ugh!) sprawled out on her bed. She was starting to feel like a harlot.
    Peeking out into the hallway, she saw the bellman making his way down the hall. She smiled and put her