...When I awoke, the scent of Jefferson—coconut oil, high endurance deodorant, no-frills shampoo-plus-conditioner—wafted over my skin, as welcoming as a hot summer breeze.

It was ten o’clock on the third of July, the day before my birthday. The only thing wrong in the world, as far as I could tell, was Jefferson had risen without waking me with his sometimes sly, yet always adept, methods. I always marveled at the way our bodies could roll under the covers until four a.m., and three hours later, he’d be ready to drive into me again. I always needed a few hours to sleep off the pleasure of round two—thus, I emerged from bed at ten—yet Jefferson would begin his day at his regular time, sleep be damned.

No, I thought, inhaling a breath of fresh, lake breeze. Although I didn’t win the Mega Millions last night, not a damn thing is wrong today.

If I’d been thinking outside the scope of my still-tingling body, I might’ve considered the unfairness in unclaimed lottery fortunes going back to the state. I might’ve thought about the dozens of kids my sister’s flame, Shontae, counseled because they didn’t have responsible parents to care for them. I might’ve also remembered our country’s involvement in a war in the Gulf, and the thousands of young men and women laying down their lives for the sake of another culture’s freedoms, the rising oil prices, death, desertion. Hunger. Rape. Murder.

But as I sauntered to my window and peered across the street, at the somber number thirty-two Sprucewood Lane, I didn’t allow the horrors of the world to encompass me. I simply wondered where Jefferson had gone, I wondered if the dead spruce at the corner of his lot would crush his house when it fell, and I wondered why he’d failed to send the colors up his flag pole before he’d wandered away this morning.

The latter was a ritual he rarely missed, raising the flag, and when he did miss it, it was usually because I was naked beneath him. Or atop him. Or…well, you get the picture.

My gaze stumbled over the implement he’d presented to me last night as an early birthday gift. The American Eagle is a sexual aid, a vibrator, if you will, decorated with stars and stripes. It’s named for our national bird because, in form, it resembles an eagle’s talon, nearly c-shaped and tapered to a blunt tip, not unlike a curved carrot. Last night, he’d used it on me externally—against my clit, over my nipples—but he’d promised it would work miracles against my G-spot, too.

When I scooped the Eagle off my night table, the switch flipped, and it buzzed happily in my palm. I sank to my mattress and pressed it again to my already-taut nipples, then dragged it slowly down my nude torso to my pussy.

Pretending Jefferson was watching from some mysterious location inside the cottage across the road, I dipped the narrower end into my slit. Instant bliss burst inside me as I nudged it deeper. Still delightfully swollen from last night’s escapades, my clit zinged with pleasure.

I bucked up to meet the toy, and if I concentrated with my eyes closed, I could almost feel Jefferson’s full lips closing over my breasts, licking circles around my areolas, then dipping down my abdomen to suck the living daylights out of the hard nub nestled in my labia.

The images of Jefferson, when combined with last night’s memories and the present events in my bedroom, spurred a cyclone in my depths, and in no time, I was tumbling over the heights of ecstasy. I dug into my cunt with an even rhythm, coaxing my orgasm to the brim.

It was Jefferson I felt down there, his sand-colored hair tickling between my thighs as he hummed away on my clit and stroked me with able fingers. Hazel eyes glancing up at me, a smile registering as he worked my body.