“We’re in Spain, Simon. Grinning is implied.” I sighed contentedly, messing with his hair.

“And here I thought it was all to do with my kissing,” he answered, kissing me again, gently, sweetly.

“Okay, cowboy, ready to see where the GPS takes us?” I asked, stepping away. I couldn’t keep my hands on him for too long or we’d never leave.

“Let’s see how lost we really are.” He smiled and we were on our way.

“I think this is the turn…Yep, this is it,” he said.

I bounced in my seat. Turned out we were closer than we thought, and we’d gotten a bit antsy. As we made one last turn, we looked at each other, and I squealed. We’d seen bits of the ocean for the last few miles or so—peeking out behind a stand of trees or over a cliff. Now, as we turned down a tiny cobblestone drive, the realization that Simon had rented a house not just near the beach, but on the beach washed over me, and I was silenced by the sight.

Simon pulled up to the house, the tires crunching on the rounded stones. When he turned the car off, I could hear the waves crashing against the rocky coast about a hundred feet away. We sat for a moment, just taking it all in and grinning at each other, before I scrambled out of the car.

“This is where we’re staying? This entire house—it’s yours?” I exclaimed as he grabbed our bags and came to stand next to me.

“It’s ours, yeah.” He smiled and gestured for me to walk ahead of him.

The house was charming and magnificent all at the same time: white stucco walls, clay-tile roof, clean lines, and soft archways. Orange trees lined the walkway from the drive, and bougainvillea climbed the garden walls. The house was a classic cottage, built to weather the sea and cocoon those inside. As Simon looked under the flowerpots for the key, I inhaled the citrus scents and the distinctly salty air.

“A-ha! Got it. Ready to see the inside?” He struggled with the door for a moment before turning to face me.

I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For bringing me here.” I smiled and kissed him square on the lips.

“Mmm, more of that sugar you promised me.” He dropped the bag and pulled me close.

“Sugar this! Let’s see the house!” I cried, wiggling free and charging past him through the door. But as soon as I made it past the entryway, I stopped cold. Close on my heels, he bumped into me as I took it all in.

A sunken living room, dotted with plush white sofas and comfy-looking chairs, opened up to what I assumed was the kitchen. French doors at the back of the house opened to several large, terraced patios, which sunk down toward the rocky beach. But what had stopped me cold was the ocean. All across the back, through the giant windows, was the deep blue of the lazy Mediterranean. The coastline curved back to the town of Nerja, where the lights were just beginning to sparkle as twilight drifted over the beach, illuminating the other white houses that clung to the cliffs. Remembering how to move, I ran to push open the doors and let the soft air spill over me and into the house, blanketing everything in the evening’s perfume.

I walked to the wrought iron railing, which perched at the edge of an earthen tile patio flanked by olive trees. Placing my hands on the warm metal, I looked and looked and looked. I felt Simon walk up behind me and without a word place his arms around my waist. He nestled in to me, resting his head on my shoulder. I leaned back, feeling the angles and planes of his body fit against my own.

You know those moments when everything is exactly the way it was meant to be? When you find yourself and your entire universe aligning in perfect synchronization, and you know you couldn’t possibly be more content? I was inside that very moment, and fully conscious of it. I giggled a little, feeling Simon’s smile stretch across his face as he pressed into my neck.

“It’s good, right?” he whispered.

“It’s so good,” I answered, and we watched the sunset in spellbound silence.

After watching the sunset until it was totally gone, we explored the rest of the house. It seemed more and more beautiful with every room, and I squealed once again at the sight of the kitchen. It was as if I’d been transported to Ina’s home in East Hampton, with a Spanish flair: Sub-Zero fridge, gorgeous granite countertops, and a Viking stove. I didn’t even want to know how much Simon was paying for this house. I’d decided to just enjoy. And enjoy we did, running back and forth, laughing like kids when we found the bidet in the hallway bathroom.

And then we entered the master bedroom. I came around the corner and saw him standing at the end of the hallway, just outside the door.

“What the hell did you find that has you so qui—oh my. Would you look at that?” I stopped next to him, admiring from the doorway.

If my life had a soundtrack, the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey would have been playing right now.

There, in the middle of a corner room, with its own terrace overlooking the most beautiful ocean in the world, was the biggest mother-loving bed I’d ever seen. Carved out of what looked to be teak, it was as big as football field. Thousands of silky soft white pillows stacked against the headboard, spilling down over a white duvet. It was folded down just so, the million or so thread count sheets shining, actually shining, as though they were lit from within. Sheer white curtains hung from rods suspended over the bed, creating a canopy, while even more curtains hung in the windows overlooking the sea below. The windows were open and all the curtains blew gently in the breeze, giving the entire room a billowy, flouncy, windblown effect.

It was the bed to end all beds. It was the bed that all the little beds aspired to be when they grew up. It was bed heaven.

“Wow,” I managed, still in the hallway next to Simon.

It was hypnotic. It was like a bed siren, luring us in so we could crash.

“You could say that again,” he stammered, his eyes never leaving the bed.

“Wow,” I repeated, still staring.

I couldn’t stop, and I was suddenly very, impossibly, excruciatingly nervous. I had a lovely case of performance anxiety, party of one.

Simon chuckled at my weak joke, and it brought me back to him.

“No pressure, huh?” he said, eyes shy.

Huh? Nerves? Party of two? I had a choice. I could go with conventional wisdom, said wisdom being that two grownups on vacation together in a gorgeous house with a bed that was sex incarnate would immediately begin nonstop sexing…or, I could let us both off the hook and just enjoy. Enjoy being together and let things happen when they happen. Yeah, I liked this idea better.

I winked and took a running leap on to the bed, bouncing pillows all over the room. I peeked over the remaining mound to see him leaning in the doorway, a sight I had seen so many times before. He looked a little nervous, but still beautiful.

“So, where are you sleeping?” I called, and his face relaxed into a smile, my smile.

“Wine?”

“Am I breathing?”

“Wine it is,” he snorted, selecting a bottle of rosé from the generously stocked wine fridge. Simon had arranged to have some basic groceries delivered to the house before our arrival, nothing fancy but enough to nosh on and make us comfortable. It was now fully dark, and any thoughts we’d had about going into town faded away as the jet lag loomed. Instead we’d stay in tonight, get a good night’s sleep, and head into town in the morning. There was a roast chicken, olives, a wedge of Manchego, some gorgeous looking Serrano ham, and enough other little odds and ends to make a meal. I assembled plates while he poured the wine, and soon we were sitting on the terrace. The ocean crashed below, and the wooden walkway down to the beach was strung with tiny white lights.

“We should go down to the beach before bed, at least take a little walk.”

“Done. What do you want to do tomorrow?”

“Depends, when do you need to start working?”

“Well, I know some of the places I need to go, but I need to do a little scouting still. Want to come along?”

“Of course. Start in town in the morning and see where that leads?” I asked, nibbling on an olive.

He raised his glass and nodded. “To seeing where it leads,” he toasted.

I raised my glass to his. “I’ll second that.” Our glasses clinked and our eyes locked. We both smiled, a secret smile. We were finally alone, all to ourselves, and there was no place else on the planet I wanted to be. We ate our dinner, stealing little glances at each other throughout, and sipped our wine. It made me drowsy, and a little touchy feely.

After that we’d picked our way carefully over the rocky shoreline to the beach. We’d grasped hands to navigate but never let go. Now we stood at the edge of the earth, the strong, salty wind whipping through our hair and clothes, buffeting us back a bit.

“It’s nice, being with you,” I told him. “I, um, well, I like holding your hand,” I admitted, feeling brave from the wine. Witty banter had its place, but sometimes, all you need is the truth. He didn’t respond, simply smiled and brought my hand to his mouth, placing a small kiss.

We watched the waves, and when he pulled me to his chest, snuggling me to him, I breathed out slowly. Had it really been so long since I’d felt—Oh, what was it I was feeling?—cared for?

“Jillian told me you know what happened to my parents,” he said so softly I could barely hear him.

“Yes. She told me.”

“They used to hold hands all the time. Not for show, though, you know?”

I nodded into his chest and breathed him in.

“I always see these couples that hold hands and make such a show of it, calling each other baby and sweetie and honey. It seems like, I don’t know, false somehow. Like, would they be doing it if they weren’t in front of anyone?”

I nodded again.

“My parents? I never thought much about it at the time, but when I think about it now, I realize their hands were practically sewn together, always with the hand holding. Even when no one was looking, right? I’d come home after practice and find them watching TV, at either end of the couch, but with their hands propped up on a pillow so they could still be touching…It was just…I don’t know, it was nice.”

My hand, still tucked into his own, squeezed, and I felt his strong fingers squeeze back.

“Sounds like they were still a couple, not just a mom and dad,” I said, hearing his breath speed up a bit.

“Yes, exactly.”

“You miss them.”

“Of course.”

“Might sound weird, since I never knew them, but I feel like they would be so proud of you, Simon.”

“Yeah.”

We were quiet another minute, feeling the night around us.

“Want to go back to the house?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He kissed the top of my head as we began to make our way back—hands stuck together like someone had spread Krazy Glue on them.

I’d left Simon to clean up the mess from dinner. I wanted a quick shower before bed. After washing away the days of airport and travel, I threw on an old T-shirt and boy shorts, too tired for the lingerie I had packed. Yes, I had packed lingerie. Come on, I was no nun.

I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom (yep, I had totally claimed the big one) after blow-drying my hair when I saw him appear in the doorway. He was on his way to his room after his own shower, wearing pajama pants and a towel wrapped around his neck. I was exhausted, but not so exhausted I didn’t appreciate the form in front of me. I watched him in the mirror as he appraised me as well.

“Have a good shower?” he asked.

“Yes, it felt amazing.”

“Heading to bed?”

“I can barely keep my eyes open,” I replied, yawning hugely to punctuate.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Anything?”

I turned to face him, as he stepped inside. “No water, no tea, but there is one thing I’d like before I go to sleep,” I purred, taking a few steps his way.

“What’s that?”

“Goodnight kiss?”

His eyes darkened. “Oh, hell, is that all? That I can do.” He closed the distance between us and slipped his arms easily around my waist.

“Kiss me, you fool,” I teased, falling into his embrace as if in an old-time melodrama.

“One kissing fool, coming up,” he laughed, but within seconds no one was laughing. And within minutes, no one was standing.

After falling into Pillow Town, we scrambled about, arms and legs twisting this way and that, kisses becoming more and more frantic. My shirt bunched up around my waist, and the feeling of his hi-there against my hoohah was indescribable. He rained kisses down upon my neck, licking and sucking as I moaned like a whore in church.

To be fair, I’d never actually heard a whore moan in church, but I had a feeling it sounded a lot like the unholy sounds pouring forth from my mouth.

He flipped me about like a rag doll and settled me on top of him, my legs on either side, the way I’d wanted to be for so long. He sighed, gazing up as I impatiently pushed my hair away from my face so I could truly appreciate the magnificence I was perched on.

We slowed our movements, then stopped altogether, staring unabashedly at each other, appraising each other without shame.

“Incredible,” he breathed, reaching to gently cup my face as I nuzzled his hand.

“That’s a good word for it, yes. Incredible.” I turned to kiss his fingertips. He stared into my eyes again, those sex sapphires doing their voodoo that made me a puddle of voodoo goo. For him to woo. See what he did to me?

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he said suddenly, his words breaking me from my Seussian rhymes.