When we pulled up to his place, I understood why he didn't live in the cramped city where my parents did. He didn't have a straight-in driveway, but one of those crescent-shaped paths that circled around lush landscaping, all lit by gold-hued lanterns. Some lights in the house flickered on as we parked. “Is someone home?” I asked. “It's on a sensor,” he said. “Your house is computerized?” He turned and gave me a look that said he was proud of his house. “I get to try things out for the real estate development business, and they're a tax write-off, but … I'd do these things even if it weren't something that made me money.” The truck was stopped, parked, and he turned off the ignition and reached for his door handle. “Life is for enjoying.” He stepped out and I unbuckled my seat belt and waited for him to appear at my side, my loins tickling with the thought of touching him some more, of slipping my hands under his shirt and feeling all that great chest hair and those muscles.
