But now it was my turn. And seeing her beneath me, eyes closed, completely naked minus the insistent light shining through the open curtains…

I was rendered completely and utterly speechless. But she wasn’t.

“Spencer?”

“Ashley…”

“I’ve been waiting a really long time for this,” she said, as I traced the contours of her abs with my unsteady fingers, “and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

“How long?”

“How long can I wait?”

“How long have you wanted this?”

“Since the beginning.”

“Since the first night in L.A.?”

“Since the first night in L.A.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked, tracing lightly over the sheer blue underwear she had yet to discard.

“I was scared.”

She said it so sincerely that I was momentarily taken aback.

“Me too,” I admitted.

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“You were too good at being a bitch to not mean some of it.”

“Maybe you’re not the only actress in this marriage.”

She raised an eyebrow at me, obviously unconvinced.

“Ok, fine,” I said with a sigh, “some of it I meant. But my life had been turned upside down and I needed someone to blame. More than that, I needed someone to take it out on.”

“There are better ways,” she replied, slowing grinding into me as her lips curled into a mischievous smile.

I nodded, leaning down to meet her waiting mouth. I used my right hand to maneuver what stood between me and full-on Ashley Davies nudity, and I took a moment to think about what would soon commence.

I had a short conversation in my head with my seventeen year-old self, congratulating her on seeing a dream come true. And then I slid two fingers directly into a very wet, very three-dimensional version of the first woman to ever give me an orgasm—first via commercial-interrupted, hour-long, Wednesday night programming—and then via uninterrupted three hour-long foreplay and eventual circular, clitoral stimulation and joint penetration.

For every night alone in my twin bed, underneath the dim light of my plastic, glowing stars, thinking of what I would do to this woman…for every night in a queen bed, underneath the ceiling of a woman I had accidentally married in L.A., thinking of what I would do to this woman, I slid inside her again and again and again. Until finally her back arched and she made a string of sounds that would make symphonies envious.

And there was no Carmen.

No immediate plans.

No desire to do a load of laundry.

It was just me and Ashley.

“Spence, first of all, let me say…we’re doing that again in like, seven minutes. Second, I have something to say…or ask, I guess.”

“Ok…”

She took a deep breath, suddenly jumping out of bed, one knee on the floor.

Wait a minute…