Later that evening, Hank and I sat in bed together. “No,” Hank said, gently pushing my hand away. “No more.”
“Yes,” I insisted, raising the fork again. After he’d returned to my house, we’d gone straight to my bedroom and made love slowly and tenderly under the sheets. We were now surrounded by the food I’d brought up half an hour ago. Hank had devoured the plate of cheese and spinach raviolis, the fresh bread sticks, too, and we were moving on to desserts, my favorite of course. “You know you want this,” I teased him, the chunk of berry pie nearly falling off the fork I was moving around his face. “Come on.”
Hank wrinkled his eyes and stared at the piece of pie on the plate. “Give,” he finally said, grabbing the fork. In three bites, the piece of pie was gone. “Now come here.” He grabbe
