Tina Kennard, Two Weeks Later

“Honey, come here!” Bette shouts through the house. My parents are visiting New York for three days – a birthday surprise from my father to my mother, who turns 50 tomorrow. Ken called a friend when I asked if I could have the house to my own for the weekend and he gave me a look telling me he knew why that was – totally made me blush. Kate is at my aunt’s. I grab a towel, dry my hands and hurry upstairs.

As I expected, Bette is sitting in my room with her guitar, a wide grin on her face. I know that grin by now – she’s finished a song. The past two weeks, she has been writing new songs frantically, each and every one of them about me. I still feel so honored she’s doing this for me.

“Hi,” I say as I walk over to the bed. Bette spreads her legs and I stand in between them. She lays her hand on my lower back and pulls me closer, lifting the hem of my shirt and kissing my stomach. Her lips feel soft against my skin. “Can I hear it,” I ask her.

She frowns her eyebrows. “How did you know?”

“Because this is happening a lot lately, not that I mind. Come on, let me hear it.”

“On one condition only,” she says with an evil grin.

“Oh yeah? And what is that?” I ask her, laughing.

“That I get to taste you afterwards.”

I sigh dramatically. “If you must. But first I wanna hear the song!” I do realise I sound like a child that wants to unwrap his Christmas present, but I couldn’t care less. I’m with Bette.

“Okay, sit down.” She pats the empty space on the bed beside her. I obey and look in her eyes.

“You’re a wonderful human being, Bette Porter,” I say softly, looking into the chocolate brown orbs that are her eyes. “I love you so much.”

“If you keep on looking at me like you’re gonna devour me here and now, you’ll never get to hear the song and I wouldn’t want that to happen.”