Matthew made dinner most nights. I helped finish the food or set the table when I could. After we ate, we'd watch TV, or Richard and I would get some work done on our laptops while Matthew read a book. The nights ended with sex— in the bedroom, the basement, or even on the couch if we couldn't keep our hands off one another before the show ended. We hadn't spent a night together all week that didn't include getting off in one way or another. Matthew and I had also spent time setting up the spare rooms, unpacking, and rearranging furniture. Matthew even brought over a small television and an Xbox from his mom's place. Richard turned a deep shade of red when he saw it. “Feeling old?” I asked when we were alone later. “God, yes. Sometimes I look at him and I think I'm robbing the damn cradle.” “Does it bother you?” “Not enough to give a shit. Or to give him up.” I couldn't argue with him. I'd never cared about the age difference between myself and any other man. Then again, I hadn't had a relationship with anyone since I was nineteen.
